Pride and Pack
by AllTheDances
Summary: Originally posted: 2013-01-01 to 2013-12-25 ::: An alternate universe where instead of Tyrion, Tywin Lannister marries Sansa Stark himself. [COMPLETE]
1. Prologue: Assured

* **Note:** Please (please, please, please) heed all the tags included in this summary. I will try to warn where I can, but trust that this story contains an ample amount of graphic depictions of (as well as allusions to) underage sex, emotional manipulation, sexual, verbal, and physical abuse, torture, violence, etc. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.*

This fic started with a prompt from the kinkmeme - _Prompt: Fingering; Tywin feels the need to ensure that his investment in the Stark girl is still... intact._ \- and grew from there. The first chapters are smaller in length, but ramp up pretty quickly. The thing is complete and, from what I've been told, 'Quite the fucking roller coaster.' So, I hope you enjoy it.

Cheers!

Relic

** **Tags:** Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Older Man/Younger Woman, Graphic Descriptions, Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Physical Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Miscarriage, Child Death, Character Death, Original Character(s), Explicit Sexual Content, Sexual Assault, Heavy Angst, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Forced Marriage, Pregnancy, Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Revenge, Execution, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con

 **This story was originally posted from 2013-01-01 to 2013-12-25, removed 2015-02-23, and returned for good right now.**

 _Some of this story was initially beta'd by dealbreaker19 and IceEagleYisuri, but has since been reworked. Any errors are mine alone._

...

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Even though he is observing her solely through his peripheral, Tywin Lannister's authority is unquestioned.

"Lady Sansa, I will make this brief." His words hold nothing of the malice she is used to from others in his family, but even a simple statement makes her tremble before the Hand of the King. "You understand we are to be wed on the morrow?" He continues, yet somehow the words don't cross the air as a question, more of a demand requiring acknowledgement.

"Y-yes my lord." It is all she can do not to weep at that cold bit of honesty. However, Sansa has spent nearly all of her tears already, last evening, after she as a bride had been set aside by an atrocious boy-king only to be retrieved by his grandfather.

"Good," that same grandfather says. "I am sure you understand the importance of this union." His glare is of such intensity he might as well be holding a blade to her throat, his curt intonation further digging of that steel. "It is, of course, of benefit for both House Lannister and House Stark to be bound by marriage. Our sons will rule both the West and the North, of that you can be assured." There is no greed in his tone; it holds no arrogance, no sentiment, but is crafted entirely in certainty.

 _Cutthroat indeed_ , her mind rattles out. Lord Tywin's certainty is palpable to her, a stab of something solid through her guts, and the thought of spawning children with this man terrifies her in a way that makes her feel as though her life is ending.

Out of habit, away from any notion of mortal danger, Sansa is about to correct him, politely, remind him that her brother Robb rules in the North and only _his_ sons will hold that claim, when Lord Tywin's eyes flash from formal to something she cannot name, then back to clinical and unforgiving.

"However," he drawls, but in a way that is nowhere near lazy. "I require assurances of my own." Again his voice is devoid of any emotion, and it cuts through the treacherous path her thoughts were walking. "I have heard varying accounts of your treatment in your time here and, while I'm sympathetic, I neither have time nor patience to investigate every grievance in order to determine both your plight and your virtue."

Sansa hears only the word 'virtue' and, by their own volition, her courtesies attempt a gentle defense. "I have not been dishonoured, my lord-"

"So you say, my lady." There is no reprimand. "However, _trust_ is a game best left to those of a simple mind." Only judgement.

Sansa blinks fast as though struck, and she has been, in a way. Here sits one more person who regards her word as a noble-born lady as all but worthless. It does not prevent her mouth from trying to stutter out something helpful.

"I-I can be... A Septa can..."

But speaking to Lord Tywin Lannister about matters of a feminine nature is as easy as igniting snow into flames.

A sharp look ends her stuttering attempts at clarification.

"Again, my lady," he says carefully, an impact on every syllable. "My trust begins and ends with my own vision, I will be attending to the matter myself."

 _Attending the... matter... himself?_

"My lord, that's highly improper..." The words are flung before she can consider them. She has just called The Great Lion of Casterly Rock improper, an infraction that will surely see her put to death. Lowering her eyes, she offers sincerely, "I apologize my lord-"

"There's no need to apologize." His own sincerity rings with equal parts annoyance and impatience. Lady Sansa meets his eyes as he speaks further. "You are correct, but your choice is to either allow my examination, and we will marry tomorrow; or don't, remain a lady of the court, and be left to the whims of your king."

Suffering humiliation privately or publicly is not much of a choice, but considering she has already endured the latter, she feels she could surely endure the former. Ultimately, the conclusion of each scenario is horrid, marry Tywin Lannister or become a mistress to Joffrey; this is simply the lesser of two evils.

...She hopes.

Sansa squares her shoulders, swallows her hesitations, lifts her chin and speaks with hastily mustered confidence. "Carry on my lord."

His expression gives nothing away. He regards her for several more heartbeats, for a foolish moment she hopes that he can see what he needs from there, until he motions for her to step closer - a wave of two fingers, like he is ordering a servant to refill his wine. The notion is beneath her, but her feet for get their station and move of their own accord.

As she approaches his side, he stands briefly to push back his chair a slight distance from the table. Sitting back down he envelopes her wrist in his hand, not ungently, and pulls her until she is standing in front of him, their knees almost touching.

Without preamble, Lord Tywin says, "Please remove your smallclothes, my lady."

The pleasantries do not detract from the staggering vulgarity of the request, and it makes Sansa's heart freeze momentarily for the shock of it.

She is looking over his head, focusing on a random point on the wall behind him, trying to school the blush she feels creeping up her neck. Tears pool in her eyes before she blinks them back and remains intent on that spot on the wall. She proceeds to bunch her skirts up and over her hands in order to get to her undergarment. Sansa finds she has to look at what she is doing if she wants to strip the article quickly, and in doing so, she notices Lord Tywin looking away.

She considers that if she were to perform this same task with an audience of Kingsguard, they would certainly be watching her every move. Lewdly, in fact. And that truth only makes Lord Tywin's modesty more confusing - considering what he is about to do.

Tywin regards her again when he has heard her skirts still, and gives a near-whispered thank you.

She feels his hands rest on her hips - not groping or pawing at her - gripping her through the fabric of her skirts until he has her lifted and sitting on the table. When he places his fingers around her ankles she inhales quickly through her nose, surprised at the sudden intimacy.

"Lady Sansa look at me. " His tone is even, but softer; she follows his order. "It may seem to the contrary, but I promise you," his voice shifts to something she considers rather ominous, "your character will not be brought into question."

In a juxtaposed gesture, he starts rubbing small circles where his thumbs are resting.

Sansa understands quite well that to question her reputation would mean questioning his, but it is hard for that to sink in when she is registering only the feeling of his hands. They are soothing, and _that_ is most frightening of all.

Propped on the table her vantage point is higher. It is something new to look down on anyone, let alone Lord Tywin. She would not say she feels any more in control, but the perspective is refreshing. He is still looking at her with unbidden intensely, but at this angle the green of his eyes isn't as fierce.

Sansa finds it in herself to let her legs relax some in his clutch. His thumbs are still drawing little circles, she wistfully interprets that as appreciation for her efforts.

Tywin lifts her ankles slowly, allowing her to brace her hands behind her for support. When she is fully stable, he places each of her feet on their respective chair arms.

Her knees fall together naturally, still covered by her gown. She has lost eye contact with him because of her new position, but she doesn't need to see him to know that his face is stoic and his glare is made of pure intimidation.

Sansa feels his hands start to move from her ankles upward, gathering her skirts as they go. He makes no move to spread her legs once the fabric is past her knees, he just keeps pushing until it has bundled at her middle, then removes his hands. She is left with the back of her gown still under her, and that suits her just fine; the indignity of the forthcoming deed is enough, she would rather not sit bare upon the table top as well.

Settling into the lull of silence in the room, Sansa can feel the warmth of his breath where her legs are pressed together, then the brush of his hands trailing from her ankles, up her calves and shins, rounding out until he is palming her knees.

Lord Tywin's palms are hot, but steady...

Lady Sansa knows what is to happen next...

The pressure he applies to spread her legs is restrained. She does not fight him, simply follows his lead, and her thighs open wider as his hands move smoothly down the fleshy inner span, then stopping midway. They make eye contact again, and while he is not as flushed as she is, his eyes remain placid, she can see plainly that his breathing has deepened.

A certain kind of power is obtained when you see a god waver. Lord Tywin Lannister, for all his supremacy, is only a man, and if someone were to have told her this, before, she would not have believed it. Witnessing it for herself, though... _Trust begins and ends with one's own vision_.

She is the one watching him now. Memorizing every twitch of his mouth and blink pattern he makes as he visually assesses her most private of areas. When he takes in her gaze again he doesn't even move his head, he simply flicks his eyes to meet hers. His intensity has deepened and he looks as though he is about to consume her completely, as any lion would its prey.

Sansa finches. Not entirely out of fear.

Tywin keeps his left hand on her thigh and slowly moves his right toward the heat at her center. Refocusing his attention on that part of her, he uses his middle and forefinger to part her folds.

Sansa swallows back the mortification that threatens to surface, instead choosing to watch his jaw clench, and the edges of his mouth almost hint at a smirk - the look reminds her of someone who has just won a wager.

He flicks his stare at her again as he removes his fingers from the lower edge of her folds and absentmindedly moves his hand back to her thigh. It is when she half moans, half gasps, that he realizes the backs of his knuckles have brushed the little nerve bundle at the top of her slit.

It is now her turn to breath heavily.

Lord Tywin takes his cue from her reaction, every movement with a purpose, at a speed that ensures she is not only watching him, but understanding his actions as well. He first raises his hand to his mouth and licks the pad of his thumb, then returns it to the center between her legs, his fingers splaying in the little patch of coarse auburn hair, his thumb sliding over and around that same sensitive bump.

The noise that is ripped out of her is so primal, it is nothing she has ever heard before. She doesn't even know it is her that has made it, until the echo off the walls is thrown back into her ears. But before she can even think about it, before she can think about anything, her head lolls back on its own and her chest pushes out the air her throat then forms into another moan.

She is at the mercy of the man touching her... and he knows it.

His thumb moves in a steady cadence, circling her sensitive flesh then dipping into the folds where his fingers were before. It is wet there like she has never experienced.

She is getting overwhelmed, a tingling heat is building low in her belly and his thumb now feels slick. It is moving easily in and over her cleft, and _that_ good feeling is crashing into the first one.

The hand he has kept on her thigh is now noticeably kneading into her skin and muscle. What would normally be an uncomfortable grip is now just another sensation added to the mix. When it seems he notices his grasp on her, he loosens it, and she quickly presses her own hand over his as if to instruct him to continue. He twines his fingers with hers instead. An act that forces her to look at him for true.

His face is no longer wooden, it has an element of some thing she can only call vulnerability, and in catching her looking, he untangles both his hands and uses a quick fluid motion to lift her, turn her, and set her down again on his lap.

She is facing outward, her back against his chest, her legs on either side of his. She is trying to regain her bearings when his hand is back at the slick wet heat of her. He is doing no more than holding his palm and fingers against her, his other hand is clamped onto her hip and is pushing and pulling her pelvis in a motion and rhythm that reestablished the aching throb settled deeply inside her.

Her hip will have bruises, of that she is sure, but the discomfort is, again, nothing more than an enhancement to what she is already feeling.

Sansa puts her hands out in front of her, gripping the edge of the table at the onslaught of what has been building since Lord Tywin first touched her. As her vision blurs and her hearing blocks out everything except the blood rushing in them, she anchors her arms and pushes back, grinding herself on his hand and his lap, looking for every possible point of friction she can find.

Through it all, as she spirals into the best feeling she has ever had, she can hear him groan her name, feel him buck up into her arse, meeting her desperate grinding with his own.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Composure comes back to her in allotments: hearing, vision, control of her extremities. Her fingers are still digging into the table in front of her and she can see where the waxly polish of wood has been scraped in her frenzy.

When her breathing steadies and evens out, it is then that she accounts for the man behind her: His arms have wrapped themselves around her middle, not restricting at all, just holding there, and his forehead is resting on her upper back. She can feel the humidity of his ragged breathing through the material of her gown.

through it all, as the world slides back into place, Sansa pieces together the understanding that whatever she experienced, he must have as well. She cannot put a name to it, and rather prefers it remain unknown, for the fact it came at the hands of Lord Lannister utterly conflicts with how she feels about it.

Sansa moves to rise, mustering as much dignity she can to wriggle off Lord Tywin's lap. He offers no resistance save a grunt when she moves, his arms unfolding themselves from around her. Yet she notices his hands stay close, his fingers touching her dress so lightly she wouldn't have known they were there if she had not swayed into them as she rose.

Standing, her back to him, positioned between him and the table, she uses one hand to steady herself and the other to sweep flat the skirts of her gown - trying her best brush away the dawning indirection and be as presentable as possible for her walk back to her chambers.

She straightens, making no effort to leave.

Sansa takes a few moments before testing her voice. "Your assurances have been met, my lord?"

She would never admit that Lord Tywin is pleasant, but the voice of his soft reply indicates perhaps an edge of satisfaction.

"Yes, my lady."

Feeling somewhat triumphant, Sansa allows herself an inward smile as she dares to walk away without his leave, sparing not even a glance behind her.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He watches her, her impeccable posture and careful steps, and continues to stare at the door once she is gone. Tywin wants to admonish himself for being so weak, for losing control, but he cannot seem to be bothered.

He is brought out of his contemplation when he notices a small white square on the table in front of him. It is only on closer inspection that he notices the square is actually fabric, with a small ribbon that has been tied in a delicate bow. He is confused only momentarily until he allows himself to smirk, genuinely, in recognition.

There in front of him, folded daintily, as only the thoughtfulness of a maiden would make them, are the smallclothes of Sansa Stark.

Slipping the gift from the table and running his thumb over the intricate stitching, he speaks knowingly to himself.

"Assured, indeed."

.

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	2. Vows I

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The sounds of the world around her warbled into coherent sentences as Lord Tywin spoke his vows.

Sansa had said nothing since the evening prior. Not when she was summoned to the King, not when the Queen Regent broke her fast with her in the morning - then proceeded to give her a graphic description of what would happen when she and her father consummated their marriage. She was dressed and preened in silence. Even the best efforts of the maids assigned to assist her failed to make small talk.

Nothing.

Reality hit her hard and fast when she left Tywin Lannister's presence the day before. This was not a dream. This would be something that would be irreversible; the old lion would not offer her concession for her fear or apprehension. Her marital duty would be seen through and she would be his wife for true.

Glancing out over all those gathered in the sept, sweating where they sat, and yet Sansa felt cold. Her ears had been ringing since she woke up, her throat felt scratched and near closed, and she could not for the life of her focus - on anything.

Until now.

Her body selected that particular time to snap back to the moment at hand. She found herself staring into the ornate, yet muted doublet of the man speaking his vows - she did not have it in her to tilt her head the short distance it would take and look him in the eyes.

Once finished, the septon cued her to speak, to take the vows that would bind her to the Lord of Casterly Rock in the eyes of the gods.

She spoke not one word.

At first it sounded like a dramatic pause, but it quickly stretched into something uncomfortable. When the crowd started to murmur and titter, she saw a leaning movement in the doublet in front of her, then felt the warm steady breath of a mouth beside her ear.

"I respect you for challenging the law, my lady, but make a fool of me and no law will save you."

It was a monotone whisper; not malicious or with an air of violence, simply a matter of fact. She looked at him then, realizing two things. The first was that it would make no difference if she said her vows or not, the law meant nothing when you were being married to a man that could afford to have them work in his favour. Also, she noted, Lord Lannister was not sweating either.

Sansa aimed her eyes at the throat of the old lion and spoke her vows clearly.

When she was draped in a cloak of crimson and gold she had to fist her hands to stop them from shaking, but her internal fright was interrupted by hands on the sides of her jaw, tilting her head upward. It wasn't until she felt a brief press of cool soft lips that she knew the ceremony was sealed and done.

Her grip was tight on the arm Lord Tywin offered her before they walked out of the sept, causing him to look at her as if to assess her intent.

Her _intent_ was nonexistent. She had just been married to the most intimidating man in recent history.

She was terrified.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The feast, like the ceremony, was grand and befitting Tywin Lannister, but to look at the man you would get the impression he found the whole thing a tedious exercise. Being on display and open to the falsities of courtiers and plied for favours from the same men who would damn him to all seven hells if given the chance.

The bride and groom were placed next to the King, his betrothed, and Queen Regent at the high table - a perfect altitude to watch the progression of their guests' inebriation. Tywin drank only very watered down wine and was genuinely intrigued that his wife opted for the same. He made the assumption that she would gladly be diving into her cups, drinking through this event that she had no control over. Needless to say, he found her Tully sense of duty impressive.

To her right sat Tyrion, who had been covertly eyeing her since the moment they were seated - like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. And _that_ moment was when Lord Tywin was facing yet another lord, this one trying to augment the terms of a loan.

" _Mother_!"

At least _he_ was enjoying the evening enough for everyone. Sansa turned and blushed hot and red at her new _son._ "My lord," she said, the words smooth off her tongue, but they in no way swayed her discontent. She could wrap her mind around so very few things in the past handful of days; however, being mother to Tyrion Lannister, and grandmother to Joffrey, were not anywhere near comprehension yet.

Tyrion's demeanour softened at her obvious discomfort. "You look beautiful my lady," he offered sincerely.

She smiled small and tremulous at the compliment before thanking him in a voice that matched.

He took a moment to consider her, a small rove of his mismatched eyes, before returning his attention to the wine and food before him.

Sansa could not help but acknowledge the similarity of mannerisms between Lord Tywin and his son - though she wasn't about to bring her observations to light. Course after course was set in front of her, then removed. She lost count and interest after ten. Her attention withdrew to her mother and how she should have been there, on this day, her wedding day, above them all. Sansa felt truly alone in a room full of people - at the feast to celebrate her own marriage. Her melancholy would never show on her face, but her eyes must have been painted pictures.

"Don't worry, my lady. Everyone here knows this was not a match of your family's making." Tyrion had leaned toward her so his voice would not carry.

"My family are traitors, my lord. Marrying Lord Tywin is an honour. One for which I am grateful, and should not be pitied." It was clear, concise, and said with all the sincerity one would find in a loaf of bread.

Tyrion quirked his brow, making his facial wound shift grotesquely. "You misjudge me, my lady. My pity is never given freely, but earned fervently by the most deserving."

Sansa could not tell if she had been insulted outright or pitied further, or both.

Tyrion looked as though he was about to say something else - his expression had again changed to one of kindness and understanding - when he was over-spoken by his father, and their king.

Sansa turned in time to see Lord Tywin speak and nod at Joffrey.

"Of course, Your Grace," her new husband said, clipped and efficient. Though, when his eyes met hers she could plainly see an air of suspicion, and it confused her. Before she could dwell on it, the king spun to her with his hand outstretched.

"My lady, grant me your first dance."

She immediately looked to her husband; not for protection, but because it was expected of her to first gain his approval. To which he offered her the same curt nod he had given the King. Sansa took the arm of her once-betrothed, a gesture she had performed many times before. One she could only hope this time would not culminate the way it usually did - in pain and humiliation.

King Joffrey was graceful and fluid, leading her through steps and turns she had known since she could walk. It was when they were almost side by side that he drawled in her ear, "I'm considering a reinstatement of First Night, just for you, my pet."

Sansa's naturally pale complexion turned ashen as the words fluttered to the part of her mind that understood such things. She could feel herself go clammy, but had enough inner strength to keep her world upright when she was spun to face him. She assumed Lord Tywin wouldn't abide his grandson's wishes, but she also knew that assumption, on any scale, in context to the Lannisters, was a deadly proposition in and of itself. Yet it was the King's cruel smile that had her truly defeated. Dancing and mortally wounded - as though she were being beautifully lead into the midst of battle and certain death. There would be no rescue, no hero for her story. Sansa was at the mercy of a boy who hated her, and a man who was indifferent. The only remaining person she had a remote notion of comfort with was a half-man who was regarded, by the men who controlled her, as favourably as an illness.

She moved her feet and turned her body as the music dictated, then sunk further into the depths of despair and regret. She should have left with the Hound; she _should_ have left at her father's orders.

A sharp, hard pinch at the small of her back brought her back from her thoughts.

"You look bored. Do you not enjoy dancing with your king?"

The grip of his fingers tightened painfully, Sansa had to concentrate on smiling and not shedding the tears she knew were welling from the hurt.

Joffrey sneered maliciously, leaning in to catch her ear. "Good girl. Keep smiling and I won't have you fucked by my horse before I take what's mine."

She could only stare and smile blankly at him and hope - hope to whatever gods listened to traitors - that she would be able to crawl into the warm dark den buried deep in her memory, the one she sought refuge in every time the King made her an example, and remain there for the duration of whatever he had planned for her tonight.

At least the twisting pain of his fingers was dulling.

After a few more steps, both Sansa and Joffrey came to a sudden stop. She thought he had backed her into a wall, but she was still in the middle of the floor - surrounded by others who were dancing - and the wall behind her was warm... and breathing.

"Your Grace, I have yet to dance with my bride."

The voice was serene, but held a dominance that Sansa could see King Joffrey wither under. The King did not acknowledge Lord Tywin with words, he simply pushed Sansa away - which only pressed her harder into the man behind her - and walked back to his place at the high table. Large hands placed themselves on her shoulders and motioned her to turn around. When she faced Lord Tywin, she had to look up far more than she had with Joffrey. He was certainly a large man, tall and broad at the shoulders; Physically imposing in a way that was clandestine, but it was nothing compared to the look he carried naturally.

True intimidation. There was no real need for arrogance when the air about you spoke of innate superiority.

Lord Tywin did not smile at his wife, he barely seemed to notice her, but when he settled his hands to their respective places and led her in the same dance steps she followed with Joffrey, she could see that his eyes were not like blades anymore. Absent was the suspicion. It was like the sharp corners had been rounded somewhat, and as she continued peering up at him, her own wooden smile lost its rigidity.

Her grin was a tiny and genuine thing, as though she were truly enjoying herself with her husband.

He did notice _that_. Of course he did.

As Lord Tywin scrutinized her expression, looking for fault and insincerity, she held it - and found it was something that did not need to be forced. His facial features remained unchanged - she hardly expected they would - but what surprised her, almost to the point of fumbling her steps and stopping her altogether, was feeling Lord Tywin's thumb rubbing soft, light circles over the spot on her lower back where Joffrey's touch contrasted in hard cruelty.

The dance turned her then to face the high table. Sansa observed the King and his new betrothed speaking in close proximity. Joffrey's initial focus on having her suffer all but forgotten. Sweeping further down, Cersei was watching her with a glare Sansa was sure that if it were a tangible weapon would have killed her where she stood. Her vision then panned to Tyrion. He was looking at them, her and his father, wearing a look that spoke nothing of contempt or even his usual mockery. It was peaceful in a way, almost pensive. Keeping her gaze Tyrion nodded at her, a small shallow movement, and Sansa felt a rush - like she wanted to weep, or shout for joy.

In that one rudimentary act of communication, Lord Tyrion told her she was safe.

...

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	3. Vows II

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Lord Tywin escorted his new wife back to their chambers in the Tower of the Hand, and could not help but notice thather own delicate hand had gone from gripping his arm to shivering on it. Outwardly though, her face was placid, her nervousness penned mostly on the inside.

 _Good._ He Thought _. In time she'll learn to completely pin back the physical traits of fear._ Those same thoughts were edged in light admiration of the girl.

They walked in silence and continued as such when they stepped through the door of their apartments. However, Lord Tywin did not stop in the sitting room, did not offer his bride wine or the opportunity for conversation, he merely kept walking to the bedchamber.

This was a duty that must be performed in order to secure further acceptance of their marriage.

Stopping short of the side of the bed, Lord Tywin turned to Sansa and spoke as if she were one of the lords he had been tolerating during their feast.

"You are aware of what we must do." It wasn't a question.

Regardless, Sansa's lips stuttered out an affirmative as her mind recalled what Queen Cersei had prepared her for as they broke their fast that morning.

 _"My father is a severe man, he'll not tolerate resistance or insubordinate behavior."_ The Queen had spoken with equal parts venom and disinterest. _"He will not love you. He will never love you. His ability to do so began and ended with my mother."_

Sansa did not think it possible, but the Queen had turned even more sinister, her voice a pale imitation of friendly. _"You will spread your legs and he will fuck his way through you, little dove. You will bleed and breed, like every wife before you."_ And just as quickly Queen Cersei had worn a smile, sweet as honey, and patted Sansa's hand like she was her oldest friend.

She was startled back to the present as Lord Tywin raised his own hand to caress her cheek and jawline. It took every bit of her inner strength not to flinch at his touch, but she simply could not forcibly will her muscles to stop their light spasms.

Moving both hands to her hair, he took little time in undoing the complicated curls, braids and fastenings. He seemed momentarily fascinated with her tresses; splaying and running his fingers through the length of them, twirling a lock in his palm.

She watched him, observed the way he raked his eyes over her. There was nothing in them like she had seen before in the men at court that looked at her, it was more like she was being determined of value. In an instant, whatever softness Lord Tywin displayed moments earlier was replaced with a coldness she had only witnessed when her father was in the midst of a transaction. But she supposed that was exactly what she was: chattel.

Reaching for the base of her throat, he unclasped her Lannister cloak and set it aside. Lord Tywin flexed his jaw then - almost as though he wanted to say something - and turned her around by the shoulders to face away from him. As his fingers worked through the laces of her gown he could see she was now trembling visibly. It was no secret how he was precieved by others, knew he was a man to be and was feared, but he felt this type of reaction bordered on the ridiculous.

Lady Sansa had been bred well enough to know what was expected of her on her wedding night, in her marriage bed; for her to quake like this was an implication, as he saw it, that he was some sort of degenerate.

The scene was raising his ire.

When he was finished with the gown, he unceremoniously dropped it to pool at her feet. At which point he was more than disappointed in Sansa's frivolous display. Instead of turning her to unlace her shift, he simply reached around and yanked at the ties. The rougher he pulled the more she shook, and by the time the ribbons were torn apart, she was softly, yet audibly weeping.

He did not care. This was her duty.

Tywin Lannister had been wrong, and it infuriated him. His bride was no more than a foolish girl. His daughter was right in that Sansa was lacking - intellectually and otherwise. How she had ever pulled herself through their initial meeting was beyond him. Some mummers act he supposed, perhaps to ensure a marriage to him instead of Tyrion.

That line of thought only served to ply fuel to his burning anger.

He all but ripped the garment down and away from her body, her smallclothes catching his fury along the way. Her hair had swished back, long and full, before he could straighten again and all he wanted to do was grab a fist full and teach her what fear really was.

Lord Tywin pulled off his doublet and outer-tunic in angry yanks and pulls, was working at the laces of his breeches with the same single minded furor. He was mentally determining if he wanted to follow through with his own duty and bed the girl face to face or save himself some grief and fuck her face-down, so her sobs and tears could soak into a pillow instead.

Either way there would be blood on his cock and he would be done with it, with _her_.

It was when he pushed her roughly toward the bed - her knees bumping the edge, forcing her to catch herself on her hands - that her hair parted and he finally saw...

He stopped dead. Cock hard and in hand, only just pulled outside his breeches, still wearing his under-tunic and boots. The molten pit of malice inside him was all at once extinguished, replaced with an ever-expanding field of understanding...

 _His_ new bride... _His_ wife was covered in a latticework of scars and bruises. Some old, as far as he could tell, some fresh - as confirmed by a small trickle of blood, surely caused by his callous disrobing of her.

She wasn't afraid of her duty, as was evident anytime they were facing each other and the few times they had conversed. She was self conscious of what had been done to her, of what he would think of her, of her flawed exterior, and more likely anxious of what he was going to do to add to what she had already suffered.

These were the things he was steered away from when he questioned rumors of her mistreatment.

 _Do they think me such a blind old man, that I won't see?!_ Even his inner voice was furious.

These were acts she endured here, not from her childhood, not from her family, and for a searing moment he looked her over more closely, seeking the telltale ravages of Gregor Clegane. But knew from experience that if _that_ were the case he'd not have to look hard, nor would this girl likely be alive for him to see.

His fingertips acted on their own, softly tracing some of the silvery ridges.

"I'm sorry, my lord..." He could barely understand her hoarse voice as she whispered her words into the bedding. "It's... They're ugly..."

He spoke as he carefully lifted her upright and turned her to him, now noticing blooming rounds of colour on her ribs and finger-shaped bruises encircling her upper arms.

He crouched down slightly until he was eye-level with her. "Who did this?" Decades of schooling his voice was the only thing masking his rage.

"No one, my lord."

Her voice was no longer quivering; her eyes still held tears, but she was no longer crying. Her appearance was decidedly icy.

His was utterly wrathful.

"Do you think me stupid, girl? Look at me." His words were measured, his tone was made of calmest seething she had ever heard. " _Tell me who did this_."

"I can't-"

He couldn't help it, he gave her a swift, solid shake. _"Names!_ "

Lord Tywin wore a posture that she was sure sent grown men running.

"The... Kingsguard." It was the tiniest of rasps, her newly found courage abandoned as fast as it was gained.

He just glared at her, the deliberated frenzy in his eyes told her he was still waiting for an answer, the one provided was not enough. It was an effort not to make water on herself.

"Trant, Blount, Moore, Greenfield, Oakheart."

They were the first, and all she had the heart to remember currently.

" _When_ did this _last_ happen?"

Lord Tywin was shaking a little now, just a rippling of muscle under the skin. Either way, his fury was consuming him, she knew this. Sansa looked at him then, squarely, her voice clear and not at all confident.

"Last evening... after our... consult."

"At _whose_ command?"

He didn't have to ask, he knew exactly who this savagery belonged to. But she only shook her head. Her big blue eyes stared at him with a fearful intensity derived of experience. Sansa may have been young, but she heeded every lesson learned through pain and loss: information kills. She would not name anyone that would force him to choose.

The girl's consideration was halting, he knew exactly what she was doing by saying nothing, and it caused a tightening in the depths of his chest - one that was both familiar and forgotten.

The vivid green eyes she was looking at, and were looking at her, suddenly went blank. She had never seen eyes change like that. It was as though she had become invisible and Lord Tywin was now focusing on the wall behind her. The only other set of eyes she had seen wear that look were her father's, when she was forced to view...

The lion's eyes were dead. That realization made the back of her neck prickle.

In that moment Sansa unequivocally feared the man standing in front of her. She watched as he moved about the room without speaking. Tucking in his under-tunic, tightening the laces on his breeches, and shuffling through the contents of a wardrobe.

She was at too much of a loss to even move.

Lord Tywin was standing in front of her again, still looking at her with unseeing eyes, still not saying a word. He shook out a sleep gown, rolled it up from the hem and waited.

Sansa didn't quite know what to do, but an instinct from her childhood took over and she raised her arms above her head - and instantly felt foolish. It was short-lived though, as that was exactly what Lord Tywin was waiting for. He gently worked the garment over her and waited until her arms were properly placed before he swept her up in his own - careful to avoid touching her most recent lashes - and laid her almost tenderly on the bed.

With absent eyes peering through her, he brought a cover across haphazardly, tucked her in, brushed his fingers over the crown of her head and said in a calm, faraway voice, "Sleep."

Without another word to her, Lord Tywin turned, picked up his sword belt and walked out.

The last thing she heard was the outer door of the apartments shutting loudly.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tyrion would later tell Sansa of how his father stormed back into the hall - wearing a half-tucked in under-tunic, shoddily laced breeches and a poorly secured sword belt - accompanied by what looked like an entire regiment of Lannister soldiers.

 _"A madman invading a dinner party._ " He had chuckled in his telling of events.

And how Joffrey made a snide remark about just how quickly the Lord of the Rock returned from bedding his wife; which was answered by the old lion picking the boy up by the ear - his crown falling onto the table with a loud clank - and dragging the King bodily to a standing position in front of him.

Tyrion made sure to accentuate that part of the story by flailing his hands side by side, as though they were Joffreys feet, looking like some poor woodland creature's death throes.

He would also tell Sansa of Lord Tywin stating, in a voice that would brook no opposition whatsoever, that the King would need to fill spaces in his personal guard. And with that, his men dragged the entire kingsguard out to the bailey - his father did not have the patience to take them any further - only to exact justice swiftly.

Ser Boros and Ser Meryn were executed there and then without preamble, the rest were stripped bare and flogged bloody.

Not a single knight, soldier, lord, or king made a move nor spoke a word to stop the Great Lion in his single-minded vengeance.

Tyrion did not know what happened after they re-entered the keep, Lord Tywin took Joffrey and Cersei into another room and had a private discussion. Although he did know for certain there were noises of slapping and weeping, as he would tell her peering over his cup of wine - and through a smile that was there, but hidden.

Tyrion would also be rather forward in letting her know that his father was motivated more out of anger from being slighted by proxy than any kind of chivalry, but he would equally insist that the gesture was one of caring.

At least to the capacity of Tywin Lannister.

...

..

.


	4. Vows III

...

..

.

When Tywin returned to their rooms he walked through the sitting area to the bedchamber only to find it empty. Lingering bloodlust was causing his body to react by getting angry, but it dissipated once he traced his steps back into the sitting room.

There, radiating in the firelight, was a spill of auburn hair over the armrest of the opulent bench stationed there.

Sansa had been shivering when Lord Tywin left, and the fire was greater in the sitting room, so she took a covering and lay curled upon the layers of furs cushioning the ornately carved and gilded oak. She had only hoped to warm up before going back to bed - and sleeping as she had been told - but the heat and the exhaustion from the day caught up with her, and coupled with the seat of the bench which was both deep to the back and long enough for her to lay unencumbered, it felt as though it were embracing her, she slumbered where she lay.

His wife was peaceful and Tywin considered leaving her be, but thought against it just as quickly. Crouching down in front of her, Tywin gently shook her shoulder.

"My lady, wake up."

Rousing maidens was an activity in which he was sorely out of practice. The thought, at first humourous, turned bitter in his mind. Instead he stood, scooped her up, coverings and all, and walked carefully back to the bedchamber. Her head was in a natural position on his shoulder and, through her sleep, she wrapped an arm around his neck. This act was also a bittersweet memory. It had been a terribly long time since he had been at the receiving end of this type of affection - one of the participants being asleep or not.

When he laid her down carefully on the bed, he took a moment to look, to really see her. And she was beautiful. Truly her mother's daughter; a queen of love and beauty. Even without the courtesies and impeccable demeanour, even sound asleep, this girl was something to revel in. Tywin was in mid-thought, a folly for his own chastisement later, and hadn't noticed Sansa awake in the groggy way sleep tries to lure you back, looking at him.

A deliberate, delicate kind of scrutiny...

More precisely, she was looking at the flecks and lines of blood staining his light-coloured under-tunic.

"Are... Are you injured, my lord?"

Tywin frowned at the girl, but refrained from his customary admonishment to instead follow her gaze in an effort to understand her question. "No, my lady," he said coolly, then caught her gaze.

In his eyes she saw there lived a glitter, no longer so terrifyingly dull, they housed a tiny spark, something illuminating the gold found there, and it made Sansa gulp a breath.

Lord Tywin then leaned in close, like one would to convey a secret... or a promise... and said in a tone that contrasted fully with the fire in his eyes, "They will never hurt you again."

It was the truth. Tywin removed the heads of Blount and Trant himself, and while his actions were spurned by the fact that his grandson and Kingsguard thought themselves able to bring harm to something that belonged to him, Sansa viewing it as an act of gallantry would only work in his favour.

That nominal shift in their dynamic carried a tiny bit further, and he was taken rather aback when she moved to a position on her knees, on the bed before him, and pressed her forehead to his chest as her fingers twisted tightly into the fabric of his tunic. She was crying softly, he could hear, as she sputtered out a wet thank you.

The old lion brought his hands to her hair, stroking down and through it. Something that, again, came from a far away recollection. The inclination to offer comfort was one he thought long ago buried. More so, the need to. He did not love this girl, but the desire to protect her was becoming something more than words recited in a ceremony.

She was his.

Tywin shook his head as if to rid himself of the thoughts that were prompting him to feel anything at all. He could not lose his head to this girl. Comfort her, yes. Care for her, mayhaps - in time. But he could never lose sight of the fact that she was only a means to an end; to be used for her only real worth: heirs, and the North.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

His fingers were still tangled in auburn when Sansa started to pull away. Tywin removed his hands and let her settle back on the bed, watching her wipe her eyes and cheeks with a swatch of her sleeve as she went, her fit of weakness thankfully short-lived.

Lord Tywin made his way slowly around to the opposite side of the large piece of furniture, stopping to strip himself of the rest of his clothing before he joined her on it. He was sat up higher beside her, his back resting against the bolsters.

Her nervousness returned to her like a wave.

Sansa could not watch him undress, did not feel ready for the truth of it all. She stared straight ahead, focusing on the posters at the end of the bed, shivering all the while. She knew what the Hound looked like after he had killed - something wild in his eyes. Lord Tywin was different, like stilled water, his outward demeanour betrayed nothing, and to her, _that_ was far scarier than a giant man with an unpredictable temper.

"Look at me, my lady."

Sansa instantly snapped her head to the side in compliance, but her eyes were darting around the details of his face. She could not concentrate and it made her look like a frightened animal; more so when she flinched. Lord Tywin had curled his hand around hers and twined their fingers. She had been far too distracted with her perception of his manner and did not notice his arm moving.

Swallowing audibly, all she could think about were Cersei's words, '... _You will spread your legs and he will fuck his way through you_...' Sansa didn't even know what the statement truly implied, all she knew was that it sounded like more intentional hurt she would endure. She understood then in another awful wave, that this was something she had never been prepared for. Her mother and septa had told her she would do her duty by her husband when she was married, that there would be blood the first time she laid with him, but there was never any tutelage regarding what her duty was exactly... Or what it was exactly that happened in a marriage bed.

 _I want my mother..._ Her inner self despaired.

So caught up was she in her own private terror that when Lord Tywin spoke, Sansa's mind, despite itself, was trying to comprehend what he had said as some sort of lecherous command.

It wasn't. Her husband had asked her about Winterfell.

She couldn't help but stutter out an answer. Still dazed, Sansa half anticipated him to chide her for being stupid, for not properly regarding her lord husband - as was her duty. But Lord Tywin did no such thing. He simply asked her what she remembered of her beloved home. Told her to describe details of both the place and its people. After a while he asked another question; this time inquiring about her siblings; their names, their personalities and the like.

In answering him, Sansa felt a bit of sorrow, speaking of people and places she knew she would never see again - especially now that she was married to a Lannister. ... _The_ Lannister. However, at the same time, the more questions she was asked, the less she shivered, and the less she considered her surroundings - and company. She was almost completely at ease when she felt his thumb move in little circles in the side of her hand. Just as before when they were dancing, when his thumb drew circles on the small of her back, she was coming to find that particular touch soothing - a cast off pacification from her life before the South. A notion that rung absurd when she really thought about it, considering the person offering such consolation.

Observing from her peripheral, Sansa took careful stock of that same person. Lord Tywin was neither smiling nor jovial, he maintained a serious demeanour - one that was not necessarily welcoming. Looking down at their hands, Sansa remembered the first time their fingers were locked together like that - a memory that made her blush hot and red all the way up her neck.

Turning her head minutely, she regarded him more directly, trying to gage his mood.

The nearly one-sided conversation ended then, her husband now returned her stare.

Lightly tugging on her hand, the old lion spoke gently, soberly, and said, "Come here, my lady."

Sansa took a deep breath before she shifted to her knees. Lord Tywin adjusted his grip on her hand but never let go as he guided her first to kneel beside him then, as she rearranged her nightdress, to sit astride his thighs.

She didn't know where to look. He was naked under her, she was bare under her nightdress, and she could not get past the anxiousness that was threatening to swallow her whole. In lieu of assuming proper decorum, she opted to admire the intricate scrollwork that ran the edge of the headboard.

"Lady Sansa," his tone remained gentle, his features remained severe. "You have never seen a man unclothed." Another one of his non-questions. She nodded in response anyway, her gaze now riveted to the ridge of his left ear - there was a small knick in it near the top - while he continued, "We are wed. This would be the time to look."

Reluctantly she allowed herself to view more of him, to take in the figure of the only man she would see this way.

Naked.

Her husband. Naked.

Sansa started at the top, his bald head was tanned a golden brown. Aside from his eyebrows, the only hair he had on his face and head were the thick stripes of golden hair on his cheeks that stopped at his jawline - not quite a beard. His face had age lines, around his eyes and on his brow, but not like she had seen on other men - he did not seem as old. She supposed that youth was something else that could be paid for in gold. His tan ended at his collar but the rest of him wasn't that far off, certainly not as pale as herself or those of the North.

Raking her vision downward, she noted his body was firm, his stomach flat. She thought then of King Robert and how he was more her father's age yet had looked older than her husband. Lord Tywin had short hair on his chest and also on his forearms; golden like the hair on his face, but it looked softer, finer. There was grey hair mixed in, both on his face and his chest, but it didn't seem to diminish the gold - just enhance it somehow.

Her view ended low on his abdomen, where her nightdress came to rest.

Before she could think to reel it back in, her hand was reaching out to touch him - more precisely his chest hair.

Lord Tywin told her she could look though, not touch, and Sansa met his eyes trying desperately to convey apology.

He did not look perturbed in the slightest.

"Go ahead, my lady. Touch," he said, blinking slow, an arrogant show of nonchalance toward her precieved error.

It was the invitation her hand had over-jumped, but instead of reaching for his chest, as was the aim initially, she reached for his face - wanting to feel the hair there. Pet it may be. It looked like a lion's mane and her curiosity was getting the best of her.

Lord Tywin wasn't expecting it. As soon as her fingers got remotely close he recoiled from them, his eyes livid and dangerous.

"What are you _doing_?" His tone was equal parts surprise and anger.

"I- I- _Touching_ , my lord." At that moment she was too scared to even look away. "Your face- I am so sorry." She was trembling again. "I- I wanted to touch your face."

Sansa curled her fingers into fists and pulled them tight to her middle. She did not want to lose her hands on account of a misunderstanding.

This girl sitting shaky on his lap, she did not know. She _could not_ know that no one touched his face, not even the servants tasked to attend him. They knew never to make motion toward him there. It was too close to his neck, too vulnerable. He _alone_ had ever shaved his face, and eventually his head, not trusting anyone to get that close with a blade.

So very few people had ever attempted such an intimate gesture as Lady Sansa just did. And while he didn't give her leave to do so, he couldn't find the logic that demanded she refrain. She _was_ his wife. Alternately, he could handle her strictly - he could break her, force her to submit. But if he was to influence the North at all, his wife would be treated as the valuable commodity she was. This meant concessions and compromises - within reason.

Setting his pride firmly away, Lord Tywin willed his voice to be gentle again and his look to be softer.

"You caught me off guard, my lady."

His hands slowly sought hers, gently pulling them away from her body, working her fingers out of the fists she had made, amd said, "I am afraid it has been a lifetime since someone has been able to do that."

It was the truth of the matter. If Lady Sansa had any ill-purpose he would have more than likely been dead. He kept her eye as he leaned forward slightly, her hands still tucked into his own, and placed her palms on either side of his face, gently pressing his fingers over hers, showing her that was all right, that she was allowed to touch him in such a way.

It took several heartbeats, but Sansa eventually warmed to the exercise again.

Lord Tywin casually lowered his hands until they were resting on her hips. There was no urgency in his touch.

She watched his hands descend, then returned focus to her own.

He could feel her delicate fingertips work their way into the well groomed shagginess of his sideburns, and it gave him an instant feeling of relief. Like an itch that could only be scratched by someone else.

Long ago feelings were floating to the surface and he couldn't help but close his eyes and lean into her touch. It was for mere moments, in his mind it felt like hours, and when he opened his eyes again it seemed that Lady Sansa hadn't noticed him falter. His thumbs started brushing lazy circles where they lay on her hips, intending the gesture to be felt with the association of comfort - or at the very least, good feelings.

When her fingertips started exploring his jawline and neck, Lord Tywin ran his palms down her thighs to where her nightdress was bundled just past her knees. He watched her intently as he started pushing the fabric upward. She had leaned closer to him as she was tactilely mapping his face and neck, and as his hands moved she paused suddenly. He could hear her breathing quicken.

"Allow me?"

She would not meet his eyes, instead she swayed back slightly and raised her arms. Leaving him to lift the garment and remove it - reversing the action he took to dress her in it. Once done, he tossed it over the side of the bed to the floor.

Anticipating her next move, Lord Tywin held her hands again. As he suspected, Sansa was bringing them up to cover herself. Instead he set them at the top of his chest where she had last touched him, and waited until she resumed her exploration before he started his.

He moved his hands up her arms to her shoulders slowly, over the goosebumps that grew under his touch, then dragged them gently down her sides. She started then, but he knew from the look on her face that it was from being ticklish and not from what she had suffered. Again he anticipated what she would do and met her worried glance with one that was placid, even offering something twitched-out at the corner of his mouth that she could take as a smile.

Or not, it didn't much matter.

She started to guide her hands again, down and over his own scars. His chest and flanks were riddled with the puckered evidence of exactly what kind of man he was. She traced her fingers down a particularity long silvery line that rounded lower on his stomach to just above his waist.

"Jaime," he said, his hands coming to rest on her hips once more, sitting idle. His voice was still light, but it also carried a bit of a faraway tone again.

Lady Sansa wore a slight look of confusion on her face.

"My son, Ser Jaime." Tywin let his mind take him for a moment. "He was young - seven perhaps - I had just given him a real sword." He scoffed lightly, but didn't smile. "The first thing he did was swing at me, unarmed and unarmoured, with live steel." Shaking head a little at the memory he offered sedate pride, "I was his first victory."

Sansa could not help but smile a little to herself. Not that she found the story humorous, but that she could only conclude it was a rare thing to see Tywin Lannister in this way. It helped to ease her, however minutely.

Her hands continued their journey.

So did his. This time lightly brushing his knuckles into the sparse hair at her juncture before sweeping them softly up her torso to her breasts.

From the moment he had removed her nightdress, Sansa could plainly see Lord Tywin's cock. At first it laid soft in the light coloured curls surrounding it, now it was larger and laying more onto his thigh. Her hands were stroking up and down his chest and stomach absently, remaining utterly enthralled with that part of him.

When he thumbed over her nipples it broke her trance, and with a gasp that straightened her spine, she looked directly into his eyes. She could see a different heat in them now. Heat she _knew_ she had seen in the eyes of the Hound. with it, his jaw worked as though he was displeased, but the rest of his face had an air of satisfaction. Before she could consider any of this new information, Lord Tywin leaned forward and first licked, then placed his mouth over the tip of her breast.

She could feel him sucking and sweeping his tongue over her nipple. She could feel it tighten and gain in sensitivity, and she made, without her mind's permission, a low growling noise in the back of her throat. One that, surprisingly, Lord Tywin gave right back.

His hand was gently kneading her other breast, caressing it to the tip where he brought his thumb and forefinger together to tease her.

Sansa was starting to feel like she had during their first encounter - her breathing was deepening and there was that same pool of heat building low inside her. In the back of her mind, Sansa thought she should be feeling apprehensive, or shy, or frightened, or anything other than intriguingly heated and calm. But in light of _everything_ , Sansa knew that Lord Tywin was not going to inflict malicious hurt on her. Not this night.

So, instead of having him guide her, she started rocking her hips of her own volition, helping to satisfy her budding need. In doing so, she felt her most sensitive area rub up against his hardening prick. And when she peered between their bodies, she could see that it was even bigger than before - now jutting more upward. There was a fluid gathering into drips along the slit at the top of it, and she had to restrain herself from putting her hands on that part of him too. That was surely something he would frown upon.

At the moment their bodies touched like that, Lord Tywin reached around and pushed her backside in such a way that it made that delicate place on her stroke him with greater friction.

They were again making low humming noises together.

He had put his mouth on her other breast and moved the hand that was there to her lower back, holding her, supporting her.

She could feel the warmth spreading inside her, the pool getting larger, and set to grinding herself on him harder just to get some relief.

Sansa felt the hand that was on her arse move slightly, then felt his fingers pressing into her in a way, and in a place, she had never considered before. There was pressure at her entrance, on her maidenhead, but only as much as she pushed back on his fingers. Coupled with her rubbing the nerves in front against him, this new sensation brought torrents of pleasure crashing into her even faster than the time before.

She was almost delirious by the time she fell over the edge of her release, her head fallen to rest on his shoulder, but Tywin was there to catch her. He cupped the back of head, stroked her nape and shoulders, letting her ride out the initial waves in his embrace. Then, pivoting them both swiftly, he laid her back onto the bed. Still writhing, he placed his palm over her mound, allowing her to find resistance as her hips churned.

He was rapt at her release, taken by the fact that it only compounded her beauty. Yet, at the same time, he was stung with a needle of guilt for thinking of her that way. If he let it, the current passion he felt for his new wife could easily twist to loss for his first - he had to make a concerted effort to exist in the moment.

The old lion watched her pant and moan and catch her breath before he removed his hand and positioned himself between her thighs, pleased as she instinctively brought her knees up to cradle him there.

Sansa felt Lord Tywin lowering himself into the vee of her thighs, the weight of him pushing them apart. Then watched as he settled further, and spread her thighs wider, pulling her knees back slightly to help accommodate him.

She found she was not scared, not really. More nervous of the unknown. Yet, when he put more of his weight on her, their bodies touching so intimately, there was an unexpected sense of comfort. She experienced so many new sensations: the course hair on his legs rubbing on the tender skin of her inner thighs, one of his hands pushed hard into the bed beside her, while the fingertips of the other were tracing patterns on her belly and abdomen, and, of course, him resting hot and hard on her _there_.

When Lord Tywin spoke, his voice was sturdy and his face was serious, but both also held something Sansa could not discern, though it made him look sad.

Her heart ached a little at that.

"There will be some pain," Lord Tywin said.

The words bore more fact than any form of warning or concern, but it was all he could offer. It was all he could say before stroking the head of his cock up and down the slick heat of her seam then pushing inside her with a slow, confident thrust.

His duty to his lady wife was to look her in the eyes while he claimed her maidenhead - he would not cower away or focus on his own pleasure. Sansa was highborn and there was an honour in having her - a right her birth affords - and Tywin would not only acknowledge this of her, but respect it as well.

However, the pain she tried to keep to herself as he tore through her maidenhead was clear on her face. He was instantly catapulted back to another time his duties as a husband caused a girl pain, and could not help but rest on his elbows to be closer. He remained motionless within her, leaned his weight on one arm and used the other hand to brush away the tears that had run down her cheeks.

Tywin tried to soften his tone for her. It came out husky and impatient anyway. "The worst is over, my lady. If you wish, we can stop."

Blinking her eyes open, Sansa regarded him then - all of him. The man who was pressing her into the soft piles of furs and the feather mattress, who was gently wiping her tears away, who was holding static inside her to ease her pain. The same man who avenged her - avenged the violence that had been inflicted upon her for months and months - on her wedding night.

Her husband for true.

"N-no, my lord... please..."

Sansa didn't quite know what she was asking for, but the initial pain had given way to a new kind of pressure inside her. She felt filled, and his cock had a pulse of its own. The rigid flesh nudged her in a way that brought the same type of tingling his fingers did.

Tywin considered his bride for no more than a moment before he began carefully sucking on the pulse point of her neck and on the soft skin under her chin. If it weren't for the quiet moans she was emitting, Tywin would curse himself a bloody fool for even _thinking_ to pass himself off as some sort of considerate lover, but his actions were solely in response to hers.

It was a handful of minutes before he felt her relax around him - limbs and inner walls alike. Only then did he start his slow, steady in-out motion. He watched her for distress, tried to be gentle, but she was tight, and his hips bucked forward all on their own, looking to bury his cock further into her.

Her face did not show a grimace, but her eyes squeezed shut again.

Tywin gathered command of himself and concentrated on making his strokes even.

She could feel drops of Lord Tywin's sweat landing on her cheeks and neck, prompting her to once again look at him. Sansa watched him move over her, watched him watching her in return. His eyes held the same look the from their first meeting - a hunger. And holding his gaze like that was a thrill, like when she would climb to the tallest battlements in Winterfell, lean to the very edge, and peer over into the high open air.

Every stroke in and out was igniting a new pleasure and she had to raise her hips, trying to meet his thrusts in order to scratch that deep-pitted itch. Sansa could see his restraint plainly. He was gritting his teeth, the corded muscles in his neck were pulled taut, controlling his every movement for her benefit.

She felt emboldened.

Tywin watched his wife shift under him, moving her hips in a clumsy rhythm as she raised her hands from where they were pressed against his chest to stroke her fingertips through the thick hair that partially framed his face. When her hands moved over his smooth scalp to the back of his neck, he groaned and allowed her pull him closer.

They were gasping each other's air when Sansa mustered her courage. So softly, barely considered a caress, she pressed her lips to the very outer corner of Lord Tywin's mouth, then moved on, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered, " _More_."

More _what_ , she did not know. Like her release from contact with his fingers she could feel it building inside and needed more _something_ to maintain it, or make it better, or...

The old lion's body reacted before his mind could register the word. His pace and depth increased and it was a handful of thrusts later that he lost his rhythm altogether. Holding Sansa tightly he pressed his pelvis flush against hers, growled a curse into the skin of her neck, and shuddered hard as he spilled his seed as deep as he could be within her.

Sansa was catching her breath, listening as Lord Tywin did the same. They were still joined and she could feel how his cock was no longer so hard. Her center was far more sensitive than before, and the feeling that had been intensifying in her was dissipating. As he moved and rolled from atop her, Sansa couldn't help but moan. His prick slipped from her body, followed by what felt like a great amount of wet pouring out.

He kept moving though. Rolling over to the edge of the bed, he lifted himself off and without a word walked out of the room.

She watched him leave and instantly felt alone. More than that, she felt ashamed. This is what it was like to be no more than a duty to a man. But what they just did felt like more to her - and that was worse, because she was stupid enough to allow herself to feel that way.

Her most private area now felt raw and hot and _messy_. She didn't know if she should call for a bath, or stay put, or if Lord Tywin was expecting her to leave, or if he wanted to take his rights again.

Sansa was on the verge of panicking, tears just starting to pool, when she heard footsteps and, just like that, her lord husband walked through the door with a small basin and what looked like some linens in hand.

He was unashamed of his nakedness as he walked casually toward her; Sansa blushed and averted her eyes.

Lord Tywin did not seem to notice, or care, taking a seat beside her on the edge of the bed.

He smelled of soap, freshly washed.

"Are you..." He was looking at anything except his wife, as though the words he was seeking were hanging in the air around him. "Is there... pain, my lady?" He flicked his gaze directly at her then. "I'll summon the maester if you require it."

"No... thank you, my lord. I am... not in a great amount of pain."

It wasn't a total lie.

She spoke just above a whisper, her hands subconsciously moving to cover her teats, modesty suddenly in the forefront. He regarded her carefully, his eyes narrowed as though he were conducting an interrogation rather than making a simple inquiry, then nodded in acknowledgement. At the same time, he pulled one of the smaller linens from the bundle in his hand, setting the others beside him on the bed.

Holding the basin in one hand, he submerged the cloth in the water with the other and wrung it out in a tightened fist.

Sansa was almost of the impression he wanted her to get out of bed and wash until he raised his hand and started to gently wipe her brow, then her cheeks and down her neck.

Stopping periodically, Lord Tywin would rinse the cloth and continue where he left off. Cleaning his way over her shoulders, her collar, moving her hands aside in order to softly wipe her breasts. Every expanse of skin where his lips touched, where his body had rested, where her sweat pooled and where their sweat mingled, was left feeling cool and fresh.

His methodical bathing paused for a moment when he reached her abdomen, where he doubled back and went to her top of her right arm. He resumed at the same time he spoke. "Privately," he began. Even conversationally,his tone was overtly serious. "Or when decorum allows, you may call me Tywin."

She simply nodded dumbly at him, not yet so brave to try his name on her tongue without his honourific.

Sansa was watching as he carefully wiped down her arms, inside and outside, down to her hands, paying attention to each individual finger. There was a softness in his eyes she had seen only a few times. Once when Tommen forgot himself and hugged his grandfather at their betrothal dinner - it flashed so fast that certainly she had been the only one to observe it. She had also seen it quite clearly when he was pleasuring her.

There was a feeling of entitlement and strange power surging in her again; these were moments only she was privilege to.

"Sansa."

He flicked a look at her when she said her own name.

"You can call me Sansa."

Tywin's lips widened slightly to a not-quite shadow of a smile. "Sansa," he nodded back.

It felt both frightening and exciting to hear Lord Tywin address her so intimately.

He was once again washing down her abdomen, over her the jut of her hips and down her thighs. He took his time cleaning away the smears of blood and seed from the inner part of her legs. Sansa was only mildly concerned at seeing the cloth darken with her maiden's blood, she knew it was to be expected. Though, when he rinsed the soft linen and gently washed her juncture she whimpered.

Her jaw was locked and her breath became shallow. Tywin tried to make quick work of his task, knowing that the soft cloth most likely felt like rusted mail in an area that was so sensitive to her.

"There will only be blood and pain to this degree once, Sansa."

His words came across as agitated, and although she tried to mask her discomfort, she sucked a hiss through her teeth and slapped a hard grip on his wrist when he brushed against her entrance.

Sansa slowly removed her hand from him - the look on her face read plainly that she was expecting him to strike her. All he could see in his mind's eye were the wheals laced across her back - then the same thought inexplicably replaced Sansa with Joanna. Tywin recovered quickly though, and finished what he was doing.

He rose and strode from her side, setting the basin and linens on a small table within the room.

She watched him round the end of the bed until he was sitting on the side he got out of. He just sat there for several moments looking at the fire in the hearth before swinging his legs up and bringing a covering with him, all in one motion.

He kept the cover up and away from the bed, silently inviting her to join him under it. She obliged her husband, scooting herself away from the blood and wet on the sheets and ended up as close to his side as she could manage without touching or bothering him.

He didn't say a word, he simply placed the covers over her.

She eventually turned away from him and willed herself to sleep.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa woke suddenly to the darkness of an unfamiliar room and the unfamiliar warmth of a body next to her.

It took a moment for her to remember the events that drastically shaped her life in the past few days, settling on the vivid culmination only hours ago.

This was her new bedchamber. Her new husband rested behind her. Her new life stretched ahead of her.

Lord Tywin was closer to her than when she had fallen asleep. She could feel her head was resting on his arm, his other arm was draped loosely around her middle. However, what was most curious was that he had buried his face in her hair and was sleeping where it laid pressed to the back of her neck. She could feel her hair move and tickle with his every inhale and exhale.

Sansa had a moment of queer guilt, feeling as though she had forced her husband into this uncharacteristic embrace, but quickly took it back. After all, she had fallen asleep well away from the man.

She felt safe though. Of that she would _not_ feel guilty. No one would dare harm her while Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, had air in his lungs, not even Joffrey. And this newly garnered power, regardless of whether it was only by association, was something she wanted to contemplate, but was far too weary to even try.

At that, she closed her eyes again and, for the first time since the death of her father, slept soundly in King's Landing.

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	5. Life I

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It was early evening when Sansa met Lord Tywin for supper.

In the fortnight they had been married, her husband made it a habit of sharing their final meal privately. They were apart for most of the day; Lord Tywin leaving their chambers well before she woke to tend to his duty as the Hand of the King, and Sansa being expected to accompany the Queen Regent or Lady Margaery in their daily routines.

For her part, Sansa was becoming a little more accustomed to being treated with the respect - perhaps mild fear - the wife of Lord Tywin Lannister commanded. However, she still felt pangs of apprehension when walking around the castle, even with a dedicated guard, and had not yet participated in the rigors of open court, not the way she had been required to prior. Those wounds were still too raw, and since her husband did not press her to be there, Sansa kept her distance.

The dining chamber in the apartments of the Hand was spacious, built for entertaining and accommodating groups of dignitaries and council members. On the other hand, with only two people occupying one end, the opulently large table looked more like a desolate expanse of northern tundra; their usual lack of conversation making the table, and room overall, feel just as cold.

This evening she arrived promptly, and was surprised that the servants usually standing by, ready serve and clear food, were nowhere to be seen. Instead, Maester Pycelle was standing next to Lord Tywin, speaking to him in a hushed tone.

When they noticed her making her way to her place at the table, the men bowed and greeted her in turn.

Tywin held her chair out for her as she sat.

As a little girl, Sansa had pictured that same gesture from her husband as being somehow more romantic, and a little less regimented. She was well beyond the expectation that life was a song, yet sometimes happier memories trickled into her actuality and it was worth the distraction to find a compromise in the two. Regardless, the fact he did it at all proved at least a passing fondness, and that small gesture was enough to make her smile inside.

She had almost told him on more than one occasion that the courtesy was unnecessary when it was between the two of them, but in the same breath, she could not fathom giving the Hand of the King anything remotely resembling an order. Instead, meal after meal, she extended her own sincere courtesy and hoped it would appease.

Sansa had become fairly comfortable in the silence between herself and her husband, but tonight it was hard not to notice that both men kept looking at her, almost expectantly, and she was beginning to feel uneasy.

Just as it was becoming wholly unnerving, the Maester spoke and broke the tension.

"Lady Sansa, you are..." It seemed as though he was at a loss for words all of a sudden. Or, more to the truth, was trying find the right ones in front of Lord Tywin. "...coming upon your cycle..."

The elderly Maester's inflection hovered halfway to a question, but Sansa was so completely mortified by the statement in general she would not have obliged the man an answer anyway, strictly out of principle.

Although, her skin spoke for her; blushing hot, fast, and crimson.

Her husband spoke next, thankfully not to her and, also thankfully, not about her cycles.

"Bring the treatment here, you fool, then leave." He flicked his hand at the old maester, accentuating his annoyance.

Maester Pycelle did as he was bade and retrieved a pewter cup from behind him. Turning, he set it on the table in front of where Lord Tywin was standing, then bowed to them both of them before taking his leave.

She watched Lord Tywin's jaw flex and twitch in irritation at the same time he grasped the cup by its rim then place it in front of her. Sansa could see steam rising from the murky contents, and was completely engaged in the movement of Lord Tywin's fingers - how they lingered on the rim, how he tapped his forefinger lightly on it before pulling his hand away altogether.

There she sat, a hot cup of mystery in front of her and her husband hovering beside her. His uncustomary action, she confirmed to herself, was _most definitely_ unnerving.

"My lord?"

The question was asked at the same instant her eyes flicked from her husband to the cup and its contents, and Tywin, never to squander an opportunity, did not miss this one either.

"It will ensure your moonblood, my lady."

If Lord Tywin was uncomfortable discussing feminine workings, it was not outwardly evident. Sansa was no longer as embarrassed, but more so confused. And while she did not look at him directly, Tywin seemed to anticipate her hesitation.

"You will not yet carry children, Sansa. The tea will make sure of that." He nodded to the cup even though she wasn't looking at him to see it.

It took a moment for his words to register, at which point Sansa truly felt hurt. She knew that what they did on their wedding night was what was needed to make a child, though it had only been the once; they shared a bed at her lord husband's insistence, but he had never taken his rights again.

More than that though, _more than that_ , he now wanted to kill any life that might have been created.

Her brow was pinched and gathered in her ever growing frustration and, dare it be said, anger.

"No."

She spoke in the direction of, and more to the waiting tea, but she was certain her husband would know the rebuff was for him.

"You will drink it, Sansa," he said with an edge of anger.

She slowly turned her head and met his livid glare, and bore his intimidation - she would bare whatever punishment Lord Tywin felt compelled to bring upon his disobedient wife. She was used to pain and - short of killing her outright - she would suffer for even the possibility of a child, of being a mother.

Sansa had not endured this long for her husband to torture her anew in such a vicious, deceitful manner. Her angry furrowed look softened to one she slipped into without even the slightest thought or hesitation: her courteous, wooden armour. And for the briefest moments the old lion's face showed the smugness of success.

"No, Tywin. I will not."

It was the first time she had ever addressed him by name alone and she used it as she had seen him do a handful of times before - to ensure the attention of the individual and emphasize a point - and watched long enough to see his satisfaction crumble before turning her focus back to a point on the table. She was sure she looked like a petulant child, but she was also sure she could not care less.

Sansa waited excruciating minutes. Waited for the infamous wrath of her husband to rain on her, either physically or otherwise.

Nothing happened.

After what felt like hours, she heard Lord Tywin inhale slow and long, and exhale the exact same way.

He knelt next to her where she was sitting and in one heavy jerk on its solid leg, he twisted the chair and its occupant to face him.

Looking down on him in this position, Sansa was taller than Lord Tywin, but she supposed that was the effect he wanted to convey. He did nothing without considering every angle, she knew this. She had seen him talking to, and advising his commanders and other council members when they meet in her presence. Him dropping to a lower level in order to speak to his wife was equally calculated.

His face was still deeply scowled and angry looking, but his voice was a total contrast in that it was gentle.

"You are young, my lady. Too young to safely carry a child." He kept her eye. "You _will_ have my children. Soon, but not immediately."

Sansa blushed fast and hot at his words. Not that they were romantic, or even particularly amiable, but that they were in reference to the act itself - _that_ made her feel things she had yet to find a name for.

His features then completely softened and she watched a dark shadow pass over him, something made of grief. She knew the look of that emotion well, and to see it on Lord Tywin was a shock to the senses.

Sansa did not know what to say. She had never considered her age in comparison to her ability to have children. It was always assumed that it would just happen after she married. This was what she was supposed to do, this was what she was married _for_.

"My lord-" She started softly, but was cut off and brought back to reality in a startling manner.

Lord Tywin's voice again belied his features; this time it was sharp and cruel coming from a face of serenity.

"You are of no use to me _dead._ "

At that, Tywin rose to his feet and turned both the chair and Sansa back to facing the tea again. He no longer loomed over her, he simply took his seat at the head of the table and began reading his perpetual communications.

Sansa looked at the beautiful, intricate engravings on the cup as she considered it, considered Lord Tywin's words. Callous or not, they were the truth. She would be of no use dead - to anyone. If she died in child-bed, what would happen to the child if it survived? She thought about Tyrion and the cold indifference his father showed him. It could only be assumed her child would be treated the same, perhaps worse because her husband did not love _her_ to begin with.

She watched her fingers wrap themselves around the cup and pull it towards her.

The taste was bitter, and became more so, as well as earthy, the more she consumed.

"I had not meant this to be a spectacle, my lady."

His face returned to serious, and his voice equally so. Yet, when Sansa looked at him, at how he was looking up with only his eyes, she knew this was something like an apology.

"If it is required again," he continued, "you may accommodate it privately."

Once more, even a roundabout reference to being bedded caused her to blush. Sansa inwardly chided herself for being so inappropriate, as she outwardly nodded at her husband.

"Thank you, my lord." It was demure. She meant it.

She also recognized why this was necessary right now and wondered if brides were normally given this type of consideration, or if it was more to do with her usefulness. The more she thought about it, the more she casually acknowledged that her cage had transformed from a room to a marriage.

By the time she finished the tea her face relayed just how awful the taste had become. She could hear, in the direction of Lord Tywin, something scraping along the table. When she looked, she saw his own cup of wine being pushed to her to wash away the bitterness. But when she peered at him directly to thank him, she was quietly taken aback.

Tywin's face looked how she felt: overly scowled, like he tasted the bitter drink too. Sansa found it both odd and strangely endearing.

While Lady Sansa drank his offered wine, Lord Tywin summoned for the meal to begin.

It was when she thanked him again, at the same time sliding his cup back to its original position, that her husband reached for it absently and settled his fingers over hers. There was nothing lewd in the situation, but small intimacies were still so new they tended to catch them both off guard.

They each looked at their connection not one another. Sansa watched as Lord Tywin brushed his forefinger in the tiniest of caresses over hers. The moment was brief, and ended when their meal was ushered in. Sansa removed her hand quickly, as though she had been caught in some treacherous act.

Lord Tywin simply pulled the vessel the rest of the distance to a convenient spot before him and continued in his work, the servants placing food around it.

They proceeded to eat in silence.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As a course of food was cleared away, Tywin called for his wine to be refilled and focused on a particularly long and detailed letter in his hand, and when he spoke, it was more to himself.

"When Ned Stark ruled the North, there was never a need for a King..." He trailed off, his agitated thought concluding in his mind.

Sansa was always peaceful in the silence that surrounded them during their meals. When he made them, she answered her husband's simple inquiries politely and directly, then retreated back to her own thoughts. However, when Lord Tywin mentioned her father in his unfiltered voice, she visibly bristled. Her memory then drifted to another man who instilled her with his wisdom.

She had meant for the thought to remain secured but, as seemed to happen in the presence of her husband, it found foothold in a whisper.

"Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world."

Tywin looked at her then.

At first she thought he would perhaps praise her for her - _the Hound's -_ insight. But that hope quickly faded as his look turned to one of disappointment.

"I certainly hope your father wasn't the one to recite such nonsense," he spat.

Sansa conceded his ire, near-whispering, "No, my lord, not my father."

"Then I assume that it was one of your northern barbarians you'd heard speak those words."

She could only nod.

"Do you understand the flaw in that statement, my lady?"

His eyes narrowed at her.

What would he care if she knew flaws in matters left to men? Sansa knew her place - _to_ _bleed and breed -_ and even _that_ had now been reduced by half. But as she considered his inquiry she began to see the words as pictures in her mind. It was like one of the wooden puzzles from her childhood, the pieces started to fit together.

"Strong arms and sharp steel don't _rule..._ They are used to fight for the people that do."

Sansa blinked her eyes up to her husband's to see that the rigidity of frustration had been smoothed over slightly.

He nodded slow and curt, his words offered in accord.

"That is correct," he praised in his serious way. "Steel and strength are tools one uses to obtain and maintain a goal. But, that is merely a minor step in the dance of ruling - either a household or a realm. The real power is found in the men who control those who wield the steel, and _their_ strength is always found above the neck."

She understood then, Sandor would see that as truth because that was his existence. He was a soldier, a shield, a follower. A follower gifted in violence, to be sure, but never a leader, never a lord or ruler of subjects.

Additionally in that moment, Sansa also understood that Lord Tywin was not about to coddle his wife. She would learn to his specifications, as daunting as they may be. In the same instant she felt overwhelmed. It was a lot to take in, to absorb and catalogue. But it was also thrilling. She knew she would never have been afforded this opportunity if she were married to any other man.

Tywin was looking at her as though it were the first time he'd ever seen her. "You have your mother's beauty, and your father's naivety."

Whatever contentment she felt prior became crushed under the weight of his words. And perhaps it was due to the desperate need to come out from under that heft that prompted Sansa to retaliate.

"My father was not naive, my lord. My father was an honourable man."

There was a twitch in the old lion's eyebrow.

"And you have soundly proven my point, my lady," he said with disinterest. "Your father was not honourable, he was exceedingly _dutiful_ , there is a difference." And added absently, "It also seems to be the curse of middle sons."

At that, Lord Tywin set about his meal and document reading once more.

Sansa sat there, her eyes fixed on the cutlery in her hands, she couldn't think of anything to reject his opinion. She _was_ naive, and the realization made her feel excruciatingly weak.

She spoke as she raised her eyes to look at him. "Is honour such a terrible thing, my lord?"

Lord Tywin paused his reading, finished chewing, then swallowed before he even looked at her. When he did, his features weren't as disdainful as before, more thoughtful.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, narrowed his eyes a tiny amount, and swallowed again to clean his palate before speaking.

"No, my lady, honour is not such a terrible thing. Neither is it realistic."

He watched her to see if she was asking out of interest or pointless courtesy, and was rather pleased to see her lean toward him - indicating the former.

"Songs and stories bleat about honour because, like everything else in songs and stories, it is a concept that is fantastic." He leaned back, and kept talking. "If tales of fancy carried every variable of man's tendencies, they would be painfully long and children would never know who was good and who was evil."

He could see her considering his words, it was encouraging. This girl was nowhere near the dullard his daughter had painted.

After a time, Sansa narrowed her own eyes and offered, "My father's bannerman often referred to him as honourable."

Tywin quite literally had to bite his tongue in order to stop himself from immediately retorting a sardonic observation regarding northern bannermen in general.

"And _I_ referred to him as dutiful." He picked up his wine at that and swirled the contents. "My lady, tell me, specifically, what made your father an honourable man?"

She thought carefully for a moment. "His integrity," she offered rather proudly.

Tywin leaned forward and almost barked at her. " _Specific_."

She clenched her jaw at his sudden change in mood.

"T-toward his family."

There was a pause in which Lord Tywin gave her a look that stated clearly she was foolish.

"Was it his honour or duty that prompted him to bring home the bastard he sired with another woman for your mother to raise?"

Sansa looked down again; her brow furrowed, she knew the answer, there was no honour in that.

"Duty," she said. The small word carried in a voice that matched.

When she lifted her eyes again, Lord Tywin was still looking at her as he took a drink of his wine.

She was not ready to give up so easily.

Sansa began going over instances of proof in her head, but every time she thought the part of her husband, her proof of honour dissolved into duty - from joining the rebellion to avenge his family and support his friend, to marrying his brother's betrothed and becoming the Warden in the North - it was all duty because that was what he _had_ to do at the time. It was what was expected of him.

Her husband spoke before she could form further examples.

"I have no doubt that your father performed deeds that some would consider honourable, Sansa." She looked at him directly and remained silent. "However, the very definition of honour is living by an established set of moral principles, and you cannot simply rearrange or change those principles on a whim." Lord Tywin then looked away from her, down into the unfathomable darkness of the liquid in his cup. "Being truly honourable is an impossible undertaking for any man tasked with the responsibility of leadership. You would be a failure before you could even try."

He kept staring into his wine, thinking and brooding.

"But surely there is honour in one's duty, my lord."

She could not allow her father to be reduced to a naive, dutiful man. He _was_ honourable, if only because he was her hero and that was the way she always saw him.

Tywin's gaze focused on his wife again, his eyes glittered with a spark that made them so very intense.

"Tell me, Lady Sansa. Do you believe _your_ lord husband to be an honourable man?"

All she could concentrate on was returning his stare without flinching, but when he raised an eyebrow in expectation, she spoke softly - and truthfully.

"No, my lord. I do not."

He sat back again, face ever-somber, eyes still keen even though they were now looking through half lids.

"Good."

He said it in a voice that sounded annoyed as much as it sounded pleased.

Sansa was fully aware then that the truth, while infinitely preferable, would always be a double-edged sword.

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	6. Life II

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Sansa was striding quickly through the sitting room her chambers on an errand for Lady Margaery - retrieving a scarf the future queen liked the colour of - and was almost to the bedchamber when she heard her husband greet her. She hadn't seen him sitting behind the desk where he spent most of his evenings. Quite frankly, it was barely midday, and she could not remember ever seeing him at this hour of the day before, so to hear his voice was rather jarring.

She had stopped, startled in her tracks, before turning to curtsy.

"My lord," she greeted in return, knowing not to say or ask anything overtly frivolous.

Tywin had yet to look up, his peripheral sufficient to know his wife was moving to a spot beside him.

In the first days of her marriage Sansa learned quickly that Lord Tywin did not like to converse at a distance, at least not with her. Before he would even start talking, Lord Tywin would beckon her closer; then, with his hands about her arms, simply place her where he preferred her to stand. Now she simply knew to approach his side, or take a seat near him. Initially she felt like she was a dog being trained, but soon realized the benefit and practicality of being nearer. Especially when their conversations progressed beyond shy start and stops - on her part - to broader discussions and his encouraging her to ask questions.

He was sifting through the many parchments and ravens he had at any one time on his desk when he asked casually, "Have you written your mother?"

Startled again, this time the cold pierce of fear stabbed at her heart, as Sansa considered whether her husband was accusing or questioning, but it ebbed a little the more she thought. Either way, the answer was the same.

"No my lord, I-" But her knee-jerk courtesies interrupted on their own. "My family are traitors to the true King Joffrey."

Lord Tywin looked at her square then, sat up straighter in his chair, his face set in a mask of annoyance as he raised an eyebrow.

With no words and only a slight gesture she knew he was telling her to drop whatever pretense she felt she needed, he would not oblige it.

Sansa cleared her throat softly. "I have not been permitted contact with my family, my lord." Blushing, unable to retain his stare, her eyes never moved from the fastenings adorning his chest. She had been sequestered since her father was executed, but did not want to bring about _that_ part of the truth.

He took a moment before he continued. "Would you disclose military agendas to the enemy?"

The blush stayed, deepening in the rush of raw indigence his question riled, as her gaze slipped upward to meet his. And although his face and voice failed to change, she could tell immediately that, suspicious or not, this was his way of lightening the mood.

She smiled softly anyway.

"No, my lord."

Any lightheartedness that may have surfaced in her husband sunk again, and most likely drown.

"Be warned," he said sternly. "Your letter _will_ be reviewed. However, I'll not have you estranged from your mother entirely."

Catelyn Stark had surely heard of her daughter's marriage by now. Offering correspondence was a pittance when compared to the potential value it held.

Their families were now tied. Any decision made to carry violence toward the Lannisters would be akin to warring with Sansa directly. Alternately, if Tywin could impart any suggestion to what was written, he may be able to control the relay of influence of Robb Stark. The latter was the further fetch, and the former might hold absolutely no water with the northmen as well, but in light of everything that could potentially unfold in the near future, the mere chance of either was well worth the cost.

Sansa was flooded with feelings of elation, confusion, and sadness. Her lord husband had offered her the first true kindness she had been shown in a longer time than she cared to dwell on.

 _A letter._

The prospect of writing words to her mother was teetering her on the verge of tears, but she fought it knowing her husband had no patience for them.

It was a terrible realization that such a tiny act felt like the entire world was shifting. Yet gratitude of his favour, regardless of magnitude, could not be set aside. So she offered a genuine smile, a courteous _thank you_ and, as though possessed by someone else entirely, leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him chastely, yet squarely on the mouth.

It lasted only a heartbeat until she let him go abruptly and stepped away, as though Lord Tywin were made of fire. She was horrified of her behaviour.

Sansa stood there, frightened. She had touched him without his leave.

Her view locked downward, the bottom hem of her gown was suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

Lord Tywin rose from his chair after a moment, and Sansa prepared herself for the punishment that could only be inevitable. When she felt his fingers brush lightly down her cheeks and either side of her neck, she couldn't glean what kind of hurt would follow. Joffrey always _told_ her what he was going to do to her.

He knew she was terrified of what her actions had earned her. When he tilted her face up toward him, her eyes were wide and panic stricken. His chest tightened in a brief spasm - as it seemed to do now and then since his marriage, always in context to his wife. Which was always finished with a pang of both guilt and anger for feeling something toward her in the first place.

Lord Tywin kept stroking her cheeks and jawline, making his face as passive as possible, trying to ease out her tension. After a few minutes she seemed to calm. Feeling her relax, he stilled his hands and cupped her face, he then leaned in closer... and copied her previous maneuver.

When his lips touched hers, she could feel not only their soft texture, but also a firmness behind them. It was what made his kiss confident and caused the pool of heat within her to stir - edging out the nervousness that was chewing through her belly.

She had been breathing fast and shallow before, but now that pattern had evened out and deepened. Her eyes went from shock to sedate, then closed altogether as his mouth moved over hers.

Their kiss began gathering intensity.

Sansa mirrored her husband's movements, but when he flicked his tongue over her lips she found her experience shamefully lacking - and herself entirely at a loss.

Tywin pulled away slightly and continued stroking her cheeks and hair gently. A light flick over her lips with the tip of his tongue acted as a prelude to his words.

"When I do that Sansa, you will open your mouth for me."

He looked like he was issuing a command to one of his guards, but it was said at a volume that made it more felt than heard - and she _felt_ it travel from her sternum to her abdomen, then lower.

Sansa nodded into his palms and smiled a little when he leaned in to kiss her again. This time when his tongue touched her lips she granted him access to her mouth, and experienced a caress so foreign, yet so very intimate.

He tasted fresh and she could feel him growl into her mouth when her tongue tentatively started to explore his.

In the back of her mind she registered that this, aside from the brush of lips concluding their wedding ceremony, was their first kiss for true. That acknowledgement made her stomach flutter and sent heat cascading down her spine. She needed to be closer, to share that collecting heat, so taking her time, Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck again. Which he reciprocated by moving his own hands down and over her breasts, then around her flanks until they rested on her lower back.

He pulled her body tighter into his as he sucked on her tongue.

She could feel the hardness of his arousal press into her belly when she was flush against him like that - a blatant display of what she deemed was her affect on him, and it left her hot and panting when he pulled his mouth away a tiny amount.

"Sansa..."

It was all he could whisper before she closed the gap and kissed him again.

Tywin could feel her hands move down from the back of his neck to the front of his torso and tighten into fists where the fabric hung loose on his doublet. She was pulling herself up and pulling him down; each an action of getting closer, and his mind and body started to flicker into an all-consuming heat.

They were jolted out of their ministrations by a knock on the large set of doors at the opposite end of the solar, which instantly flared anger in the Great Lion. Sansa let go her grip immediately and stepped away from him, but before Tywin moved to ad the interruption he took a moment to look her over.

She was happy to see the softness return to his eyes when he regarded her - as well as the heat she had seen on their wedding night. However, the rest of his face was rigid. But Sansa was getting to know that look, that was what he looked like normally, and over the course of their time together it was becoming less and less intimidating.

When he excused himself, Sansa continued to the bedchamber in order to retrieve the scarf she had initially ventured in for, doubly allowing Lord Tywin his privacy.

The wardrobe within their bedchamber had been the largest she had ever seen, but even it felt diminished within the expanse of the large room. Sansa had dismissed the maid, opting instead to search for the article herself, and was near to giving up when she had finally located the sash. Holding the material up in front of her triumphantly, like some silky trophy, her jubilation fell away like lead when she felt a hand touch her shoulder.

Sansa turned, her pace measured to hide her fear, only to face Lord Tywin. And just as fast as her world went cold, it warmed again and she found her mouth smiling some. The look he offered - somewhere near neutral, but definitely not angry or annoyed - made her feel less broken inside, more grounded. In turn, his brand of good mood bolstered her own, and she so wanted him to see that in her, that she wasn't always so timid and frightened.

She was a Stark, of northern blood, and she wanted him to see that part of her too.

His hand came to rest on her cheek as her look of alarm faded, his thumb stroking tender lines where it rested. There was a heat in his eyes, like before; his features and voice remained stern.

"As my wife, you _are_ permitted to kiss me." The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly as he added, "As propriety dictates."

He lowered his hand when she looked away and contemplated for a moment. Then watched as she slowly, cautiously stepped closer to him.

She took his words as an invite.

He meant them as one.

Sansa was already on her toes to reach him when he slowly wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her off them.

This kiss was feverish - deep, and wet, and a little rough.

She had hold of his face this time and it was exactly what she needed to kindle her own heat again.

Her memory would never piece together all the details, but the next thing she would remember is being on the bed, fully naked and helping Lord Tywin out of his breeches.

She was kissing him everywhere she could reach. At first hesitant to lay her mouth anywhere but on his own, she did not want him to think her a deviant, but he simply nodded at her and made an airy grunting noise when she licked and sucked on his neck - like he had done to hers on their wedding night.

They were all hands and mouths, like their kiss prior, physical actions were fervent.

When Tywin slid his fingers down the front of her - from her teats to her heat - his breath caught in his throat. Sansa was so wet and ready for him, he felt a powerful surge of arousal course from the depths of his chest to the tip of his cock. His need was suddenly an urgent priority, which found him swiftly positioning his wife underneath him and, just as swiftly, thrusting into her, exhaling a noise as he did so that sounded almost painful.

When he entered her, there was a twinge of discomfort accompanying the sense of fullness. This was the first time they had bedded since their wedding night, but the ache was brief, then altogether forgotten when he kissed her deeply and started to move inside her.

This time there was no pressure, no duty associated with what they were doing, and that was making it exciting for Sansa. She had longed to feel this, _him_ , again and she could not decide if it was because her husband was a man to be feared and it made it feel dangerous, or if it was because Tywin acted as though he truly desired this from her, _wanted_ her.

The latter was a force like a physical shove at the part of her mind and body she truly thought had been beaten away to nothing. It was something, to be frightened of feeling wanted. Yet the fact her husband respected her in his own way gave her permission to give in to it - in these intimate moments, at least.

Although Sansa knew what to expect this time, she was still nervous about not knowing what to do.

Her husband did not seem at all bothered by her inexperience.

Tywin worked over and into her for quite some time, watching the colour build on her chest and neck, from porcelain to pink to a lovely crimson. She was receptive to kissing and the attentions of his mouth so he licked and kissed and sucked her breasts and neck and mouth. To be duly rewarded with her breathy moans and her body wriggling against his.

When her moaning started gaining in length and volume he slowed his thrusts and peered down at his wife.

"Sansa, look at me."

She met his eyes with her face locked in ecstasy, her mouth was slightly parted and her cheeks had that telltale flush - the sight almost undid the old lion then and there.

His vocal pitch dipped as he spoke through his lust.

"I want you to touch yourself the same way _I_ touch you." He flicked a glance between them, to where they were joined.

Sansa knew exactly what he meant. It was a touch she thought about, and dreamt of sometimes. She had never considered doing it herself though, that was new, and thoroughly scandalous. Blushing even deeper, she complied; her hand leaving the back of his neck and making its way between them to her sensitive bump. Sansa could feel a wet tangle of hair down there, as well as Tywin's cock brushing her fingertips as he pushed it in and pulled it out of her.

It took some fumbling strokes but she eventually found what felt good.

Tywin watched her chase her pleasure, fucking her in a rhythm that didn't leave him wanting. He hooked his hand around her knee and raised her leg to drape over his lower back, then did the same with other.

The change of angle allowed him to sink into her at a greater depth and he could not stop the moan that rattled out of him.

" _Gods, girl._ "

Soon he saw her head loll back further into the bed, felt her body start to tense, and began fucking her in earnest; deeper and harder until she shattered completely; her inner walls clenching tight around him.

She was breathing whimpers when he felt her bring her hand from her juncture and wrap it around to his back, digging her fingernails into his flesh. He knew then he would not escape this encounter unscathed, and it was that very acknowledgement that sent him reeling into his own undoing.

The look her husband wore in the moment of his release was completely unguarded, and Sansa knew in the same moment that she would yearn to see it again.

Tywin rested over top his wife, his face pressed into the curve at the base of her neck, waiting for his breathing to even. His hand had settled at her crown and he was absently stroking his thumb over her hairline. He forcibly allowed himself this comfort, _her comfort_ , in that moment. He could feel her hand, more precisely her fingers, that remained at the back of his neck softly raking the skin there.

He did not want to become dependent on _this_ , this feeling, this soothing, but he had been fractured for so long that the closeness he felt with Sansa when they were alone was like a salve.

When he brought his face around to look at her more directly she wore the same smile she had greeted him with when she saw it was him in there bedchamber. There was nothing false about it. Nothing that told him this was an attempt to usurp his authority. Nothing that implied she was mindlessly performing a duty for the benefit of her husband.

The more he observed her the more he attempted to uncover her motives, and the more his efforts became fruitless the more his suspicions were provoked. And it all fueled his ire, because it was bootless folly of his own making and he bloody-well knew it.

Tywin was pulled from of his bitter reverie by her movement, then any thoughts that were even remotely tainted turned to smoke when she craned the small distance and kissed him. It wasn't a deep kiss, but it lingered for a few heartbeats before she pulled back again.

"You like that, don't you?"

His question came out in the tone of an imputation; however, his wife was becoming more immune to his severe nature - one occurrence at a time.

She kept her smile, blushed, of course, and gave a little nod. "Yes," she said.

Sansa could see the hint of a smile in Tywin's eyes, even though his face did not reflect it. So she took it upon herself to smile for the both of them. In response, her husband leaned in and kissed her swollen lips. First the top then the bottom, and when her fingers went from gently teasing the nape of his neck to holding him firmly in place, he cleaved into her mouth with a smooth press of his tongue.

Her entire body was awash in sensation.

The hair on Tywin's chest and stomach was grazing the length of her - from her collar to her abdomen. The restrained weight of him was just enough to make her work to breathe. It certainly wasn't a struggle, but the deeper the inhale the more she pressed into the man above her. As their kiss intensified she could feel the hand that he rested at the crown of her hair gently fist into it; it was a type of possession that sent waves of tingling heat straight to that place between her legs. His cock, that had remained inside her, was becoming hard again, and as they made small movements against each other, that part of him was moving as well.

This time their touches were deliberate, their actions were slow. They took their time.

Her songs would tell her she was making love with her husband. Sansa's reality would tell her this was a pleasurable instance in a place that dealt only in misery - with the man who, more than likely, was responsible for it.

...

..

.


	7. Life III

...

..

.

He was in a foul temper.

Sansa knew her husband had been woken, as she had, by insistent knocking on the door of their bedchamber at the deadest hour of the night, and when he went to upbraid the poor guard tasked with rousing the old lion, she could just barely hear the voice of Lord Varys drifting in from the sitting room. Tywin had left and the door had been closed after that, cutting off all sound from the other side.

He did not return. It was only later that morning when she had seen him again as she walked the periphery of court. Joffrey was on a hunt, leaving the realm in the capable hands of his grandfather.

Tywin was sitting on the Iron Throne performing his duty to his King and kingdom, and she could not help but be riveted at the sight. Sansa recalled that King Robert seemed to slack clumsily about the throne, and Joffrey never seemed quite seated, more perched and uncomfortable. Whereas Tywin looked as though it were made for him. His tall frame and broad shoulders ensured he wasn't hidden amongst the blades. Even his long fingers curled around in just the right spots, practiced at avoiding injury.

The scene played as a beautiful orchestration of the most subdued combat. Something she could only now appreciate.

The passage time had allowed her courage to root and rebuild, which allowed her feet to walk to court, but the elusive trait was not yet solidified enough to prompt her into going any further than the outermost walls. She tried to blend as much as her dress - coloured the darkest of crimson, trimmed in hints of gold - and her Tully looks would permit. Which was not much at all, but for the most part she went unnoticed.

Lord Tywin remained focused on the business presented in front of him, never so much as glancing to the faces of the courtiers crowding in at the edges. She had never seen so many people in the room, even during Joffrey's more gruesome displays. _All of them are shouldering for a glimpse of King Tywin_ , she mused to herself. But truly, that was what they were doing. In the time she observed her husband sitting in judgement there had been no bloodshed, no malicious behaviour, and no sadistic taunts-turned-tortures. Sansa owned the self-admitted fact that Tywin Lannister was the closest to a real king she had seen sitting on that throne. It did not matter whether or not she had only two others to compare him to, from the whispers and nattering of those around her, her assessment was not biased.

In considering those same people, Sansa felt the number of them alone begin to suffocate her, and proceeded looking for an opportunity to make her way out of the vast chamber. She needed to leave and avoid being forced into courteous conversation with the people who had once encouraged her suffering. The very same people who now vied for her ear. Lady Lannister was indeed a person with whom both men and women of court sought to flatter and earn favour. It was part of the reason she avoided it, and why, in her opinion, Lord Tywin did not require it of her.

 _Lady Lannister_. It should have been Lady Stark, a bow to traditions far older than any of them, but that was not how her husband decided she would be announced. It felt like a slight, punishment if she thought about it too long, but when compared to her history in King's Landing a name like Lannister was a far cry from one like 'traitor', and resulted in none of the pain. ...Not the kind to breaks skin, at least. For the most part she had accepted who she was - the lady wife of the Great Lion of Casterly Rock - but her stomach turned every time someone spoke her new name. She did not _feel_ like a Lannister, and might be that was the only thing keeping her afloat in the torrents of guilt that threatened to drown her for conforming to their marriage in the capacity she had.

Although, no matter her name it did not stop hearsay. In spite of her station, her husband, _or anything_ , gossip would always prevail. Being a Lannister had not stopped the side-eyed glares of ladies who felt they themselves were of better, less traitorous stock, and best fit to marry Lord Tywin. Or how his young bride surely spread her thighs for all the gold in Casterly Rock.

Sansa purposefully wore only the barest of jewelry, and it was silver, much to the displeasure of Lord Tywin. She had explained it away as a connection with the North, certainly not with House Stark or her father or anything considered an act of treason, and if her husband had an inkling regarding the truth beneath the reason, which she was positive he did, he kept it to himself. She also knew her ruse was merely a temporary stay, that she would have to allow him to drape her in gold at some point. But for right now even the tiniest victory was still a victory.

Her only reprieve from the poisonous blather was that now those once bold courtiers did not dare slander her to her face. She didn't have to hear their hate outright, and that was a small mercy.

During a pause in summons and protestations of court, Sansa turned to leave. As she did so, she was caught in the wave of bodies exiting as well; however, she did managed to stay ahead of the crowd while tactfully ignoring the various calls of her name coming from behind her.

Nevertheless, as she rounded a corner in the outer corridor, her wrist was caught in a tight grip. Sansa immediately turned - heart in her throat - expecting to see Ser Meryn or Ser Boros. She knew they were dead, but _that_ fear had been second nature for so long her mind sometimes fought itself to settle on actualities.

This time though, when she saw who had halted her, she smiled.

"Where is your guard?"

Her husband's mood was still low-slung and her smile, and whatever feelings of contentment she wore, bled out as she watched his expression cross into fury.

"I- He is-"

" _Stop muttering_ ," he seethed. " _Are you touched_?!"

Tywin leaned in close and squeezed the small wrist in his hand even harder.

His words cut, his grasp pinched, and she, at once, slipped into her armour in order to stem the hurt.

"I bid him wait at the East door, my lord. I have exited the South door." She nodded in the direction she had come. The same direction she could see gathering groups of lords and ladies witnessing the fuss unfold - surely bolstering the opinion of her continued ineptitude.

"I was making my way back to him." She looked to her husband, eyes opened wider as though to plead, her voice flat by contrast. "Please forgive any slight my misdirection may have caused you, my lord."

Then in a blink her eyes were as dead as her voice, and Sansa found herself living through the shell she had created for Joffrey.

Physical pain was nothing compared to forcing herself into the pseudo-self she had outgrown. And that was the larger grief: she was no longer _that_ girl, that frightened little bird. Tywin gifted her a semblance of confidence, and now, in five words and a firm hold, with an audience of people who wanted nothing more than to see her fail, he was all but reneging it.

She once more felt publicly stripped bare. _Humiliated_.

The too-small armour was starting to make her claustrophobic - her stomach began to turn.

She certainly didn't know what _she_ looked like, but watching Tywin from the spot outside of herself, she could see his anger unravel. His shoulders lost most of their tense hunch, his breathing deepened, the muscles that were drawn tight along his jaw relaxed, his eyes drained of their piercing rage... and most of all, his clench released from around the delicate bones of her wrist.

Still, his hand remained there, fingertips sweeping lightly over where they had just inflicted hurt.

"You..." He started in his stern voice, then faded as though distracted.

His other hand was suddenly on the upper part of her other arm - not grabbing, but resting - his thumb drawing the tiniest of circles there. If she had not felt it, she would not have been sure he was doing anything at all.

The tightness in her chest and the roiling in her stomach were abating. She began to feel herself again, and realized that that was what Tywin was doing. He was trying to pull her back from where he had chased and lost her.

He had seen more than his share of men and women and children die at his feet, or pitch the throes of death in his line of sight, but _this_ was terrible.

The needless disintegration of something beautiful.

Tywin knew that before she became his wife, Sansa had to turn herself into something she was not in order to survive. The physical scars she bore and the fact that she survived at all were proof of that. What was easier to forget were the scars that he could not see. The ones that caused his wife to shudder if the sound of a crowd rose too loud, or pale and lose focus on a conversation if men wearing their white cloaks ventured too close.

She had finally answered him truthfully and in detail when he asked about her time as a ward. It took several moon turns and a certain level of trust to be earned by him in order to eventually hear it be told. And once it was, there was a part of him that wished he had not heard it at all.

It wasn't the thought of torturing a woman - _a girl,_ he amended - that bothered him. Those deeds were nothing he hadn't condoned nor performed himself. Rather it was the utter lack of necessity and greater purpose that disturbed him. Tywin knew the value of Sansa Stark before he had ever met the girl, and realizing the excruciating ignorance of his daughter and grandson in that regard was bitter medicine to swallow. Yet, what made him truly choke and hate was the fact that it had been Tyrion who acted most befitting House Lannister, by adhering to common sense.

As he watched his wife turn into a husk in front of his very eyes, when his rationale won out against his want to throw fury at the closest and most accessible, he understood he was just another green-eyed monster looking to publicly wallow in her misery.

His wife was inadvertently forcing him to teach himself new lessons... and it was infuriatingly satisfying.

"Sansa." He willed his voice to soften.

She was looking at him now, the life restoring in her eyes though fear still edged them.

"I'm sorry-" she started, before Tywin gently, yet firmly interjected.

"No. Stop." His mind had taken him to the reason he was in a horrid mood to begin with. "You hold no fault."

Her face scrunched up a tiny amount and he knew she wanted to inquire about his obvious burden He was not about to tell her, least of all standing _there_.

 _There_ , where he could practically feel the shallow murmurs of the shallow people that surrounded them.

In one fluid movement he raised his hand from her upper arm to the side of her neck, settled his thumb on her jawline, pulled her closer by the wrist in his other hand - close enough for the action to be read plainly by those staring at them, but not so close as to be indecent - and kissed the soft auburn just above her hairline.

It was a message, and for a heartbeat Tywin wasn't sure if it was for him as much as it was for the people around them. He took only the briefest of moments to enjoy the scent of her hair and the feel of her warm breath through the collared neck of his doublet before stepping back to a distance of arms-length.

"I will escort you, my lady."

The instruction was curt but Sansa did not miss her cue, taking the arm he offered and walking with him - equal in their commanding elegance.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa had waited only a short time beyond the hour in which she and her husband normally accompanied each other for supper, when Tywin's steward came to relay the message that his lord would be dining in council chambers.

His steward, Lyol, was slightly older than Tywin and had been in service of the Lannisters since he was a boy of no older than eight. Starting in the stables, he soon moved into the keep as a page for Lord Tytos, and was ultimately retained by Tywin, who rewarded his loyalty and service by advancing him to his steward. Which Lyol had been for more than three decades.

He always greeted her with a kind smile and equally kind words. Even in the beginning, Lyol would go out of his way to ensure Sansa was aware of her husband's schedule and routine. He was a good man, not just a person who served well but someone akin to those she had loved and lost from Winterfell. So when Lyol told her, after she had been married to his liege for barely a moon, that he thought Lord Tywin wed better than he would ever realize, she took it as far more than a servant looking to garner the good graces of their Lady.

Yet as he stood before her, she could see plainly the steward was troubled. His face was ever-kind, but his posture spoke of uncertainty.

"Is he... well?" She knew Lyol would never volunteer information, but he would not lie to her either.

"My lord's health is sound, my lady."

Sansa looked at him thoughtfully, he did not move from where he was standing. She was confident that he was silently willing her to continue her questions.

"Has there been another battle?"

"There are always battles in war, my lady."

Deduction of what was important to Tywin Lannister led to her next question.

"Something has happened... family?"

She was unsure if she phrased the question too openly, but when Lyol kept his steely gaze on hers and nodded slow and deep, the answer was both clear and completely muddy. Then, just like the man he served, Lyol wore an expression that told her the conversation was over. The only exception was that _this_ man made it appear friendly.

Sansa smiled small and genuine, thanked him for the message before dismissing him, and proceeded to summon her meal.

As she ate, Sansa came to understand that although most of her suppers were spent in silence, she had never felt quite as alone as she did during that one.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She did not know what time her husband came to bed, but when he stirred her as he slipped under the layers of coverings she noticed that there was barely a glow coming from the hearth on his side of the bed.

Watching him settle into a prone position and listening to him exhale deeply, she then smelled the heavy odor of wine. She would never question him in his drinking, he had never imbibed greatly in the past and she could only assume it was directly related to his mood throughout the day.

Something in relation to family. Something she knew he would never willingly disclose.

As his wife, it was her duty to ease his burden, and Sansa felt they were on a more comfortable level when they were alone like this. In private she felt like more than a political convenience to her husband, and perhaps he would be more receptive to her inquiry now than any other time.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Tywin snoring. Loudly.

The inclination to wake him in order to talk crossed her mind, then kept going.

She found her sleep again, eventually. There were some tense moments when Tywin sounded like he was choking, but he seemed to right himself and fall back into a regular, albeit loud, breathing pattern. But later what woke her violently wasn't Tywin's snoring, it was him sitting bolt upright then scrambling to get out of bed as though the linens were made of molten metal.

At the same time he was escaping the clutches of the bed he was speaking clearly to no one in particular, and _what_ he was saying was as baffling as his behaviour.

" _Let me see it... You're alright boy..._ " He was off the bed completely and had walked over to the fireplace, leaning toward the embers.

Sansa had propped herself on her knees, had yet to say a word to him, and was quietly observing. She could see that he had placed his hands dreadfully close to the twinkling coals and was turning his hands over, from top to palm. For a horrific heartbeat she thought of the Hound, thought of the actions he had suffered. But when Tywin kept talking, she realized he was searching his hands for something not intending to harm himself.

The light from the hearth was insufficient. After a minute he walked to the window that was bright in the light of the full moon.

" _No... Two... You're wrong!... Two!_ "

Tywin was yelling at the palms of his hands. He had raised them to catch the white illumination piercing through the uneven density of the glass, subsequently bringing them before his face.

She tentatively rose and moved off the bed herself, not taking her eyes off him, waiting for him to address her - harshly or calmly, she wasn't sure what to expect. But when she had padded barefoot to a position almost beside him, without so much as an acknowledgement on his part, she knew something was amiss.

When she moved to stand directly in front of him, he was still talking to his hands. Almost pleading with them.

It was when she raised her own hand and touched her fingertips to his his wrist that he snapped his attention at her, grabbing at her fingers, pulling her own palms roughly into the light.

" _No no no no no... Gods no..._ " The words whined out of him like he was a wounded animal, at the same time he turned her hands over and over in the glow. " _Please no... Please please please..._ "

Sansa felt a flood of fear the likes of which she hadn't experienced since well before her wedding.

"Tywin..." She swallowed as much of her apprehension as she could, speaking as softly as her body would permit.

" _No... Please..._ " The words were keening out of him, his face was mix of anger, confusion and something that made her go cold at the core. Worry.

"Tywin," she said again.

Sansa was at a loss as to what was required for comforting a man... least of all _this_ man. The only reference she had was soothing Bran when he had been frightened of thunderstorms as a toddling babe.

"Tywin, you're alright. Nothing will hurt you."

She had a sudden pang of awkward embarrassment. Reassuring Tywin Lannister of his safety sounded far more bizarre put to voice than it did in one's mind.

He stopped shifting and whining and simply stared at her, her hands in his, his face creased in concern.

At that angle, in the filtered light, his green eyes flickered like those of a cat. The effect was uncanny and mesmerizing all at the same time. He took a deep breath and started blinking like one would do if they were waking; heavy, deliberate blinking.

She watched as his face reassembled itself into an expression of seriousness, no trace of any other emotion remaining. His eyes hardened and he straightened himself to his full height before looking at her hands in his - he flicked them away as though they were filth.

Sansa did not say a word, just stood frozen in place.

They stayed like that for a handful of minutes, simply looking at each other in the moonlight. To a casual observer the scene could have been one of romance, until of course it would be determined that the tension between the participants was a palpable entity.

It was Tywin who spoke first. "Go back to bed Sansa." He sounded tired and irritated.

She instead stepped toward him and reached her fingertips to his wrist again. This time his hand was at his side, not in front of him.

"I will when I know you are alright," her tone soft, taking another step closer, "Tywin."

He had been watching her, like the animal his eyes were reflecting, first scrutinizing the touch of her fingers then the proximity she felt entitled to.

It was too close and he was of no mood.

"I am _well_."

He gritted it out at the same time he snatched the forearm extended close to his hand, using the lose grip to leverage and spin her away from him. Tywin then let go of her forearm, placed that same hand on her back and, using only the strength of his fingers, shoved her the first couple of steps in the direction of their bed.

" _Go,_ " he growled.

She took the initial assisted strides but did not go further. Instead she turned again in his direction.

He had faced his attention to the window, looking out into the bright night, with his arms folded across his chest. Sansa knew he was aware of her presence, she could see the vibrating shadows of his flexing jaw - whether in annoyance or self consciousness, she couldn't discern - and stepped toward him again, cautious and slow, like one would approach anything that was spooked.

He didn't bother to look at her. His wife didn't do as he bade, but he was truly in no form to argue the point... or to really care. Tywin could sense her getting closer though, and it acted as a calming distraction - something harmless to seep away his troubled focus.

Sansa stopped a short distance away from her husband, not confident in what to do next. His hand was now tucked up under his other arm, perched on his chest, so she couldn't touch there again without it seeming discorded. She stared at his side, at how his crimson bedgown was made of such a luxurious weave that it seemed to shimmer in the pale light, as though it were alive.

Without warning, he felt the backs of her fingers brush down the silky fabric, down his side, and end their journey at his hip. Her touch was careful but firm enough to neither bother nor tickle. She did it again, raising her hand and running the backs of her knuckles the length of his flank, memorizing every thread and crease she encountered, absorbing the heat of his skin underneath and sharing her own in return.

Sansa rested her hand on his hip and watched the rise and fall of Tywin's chest and arms as he took a deep breath.

She was taken then, in their silence and muted actions, back to the bits and pieces of her childhood that she had tucked away and kept safe for so long. The ones in which she knew purely out of instinct that _feeling_ someone being there for you in the blackness, either of night or emotion, made even the simplest touches seem the grandest of gestures.

He did not have to look at her to know she was moving behind him. His mind's eye could see her perfectly, gliding fluidly, always graceful. Much like how water will always find a path, even on the roughest terrain.

Sansa did not remove her hand from its place on his hip, just swiveled it as she moved. When facing his back she took a moment to fortify her nerve before proceeding. Stepping closer to him, she could see the tension rise in the muscles of his back; another step and even his breathing sounded tight. But she would not stop, not now. She was so close to him, could feel the warmth of him radiating and it made her next action seem only natural.

His lady wife leaned into him, slowly but with a facsimile of confidence, pressing her body into his back, turning her face and resting her cheek on him too. She took one or two breaths before guiding the hand she kept on his hip around to the front of him, feeling everywhere her hand passed over, each of those strands of muscle tissue flexing in protest as though she were performing some act of harm.

She would not be deterred.

Her other arm made the same journey on the opposite side of him and came to rest with its partner, completing the embrace.

The longer they stayed like that, the more Tywin could not decide if he was finding himself comforted or emasculated, or both, or the former leading to the latter. His frustration was compiling into anger and had just starting to bubble to the surface when it was stopped abruptly.

She was humming - some tune or melody, he couldn't tell - but it was low enough he felt it more than anything - and if he told himself _that_ was not comforting he knew he'd make himself a bloody liar.

Tywin closed his eyes, willed the tension in him to subside, and allowed himself to accept whatever affection this girl, _his wife_ , was offering. Allowed himself this succor. Allowed himself this weakness. Because he knew - knew with every fraction of himself that was fighting the gods-damned truth - that he would be better for it.

When he did not reject her outright, Sansa felt triumphant. However, when she thought about that, considering a hug a triumph, it brought the entirety of their relationship into clear, concise focus. Sadly. But that was who they were, and that was what they were bound to, and like her jewelry she would take even the smallest gain where she could.

She was surprised out of her thoughts when she felt him shift a tiny amount, then felt his hands covering hers. Thinking he was about to pry them off and fling her away like he did before, she was equally surprised when he simply held them.

Sansa held his hands back, returning the slight pressure he had applied.

They stood there, like that, loosely holding on to one another and Sansa humming out the unwanted silence, for long minutes, perhaps close to one half of an hour.

"Come back to bed."

Tywin had been so deep in his own thoughts, he had to take a moment in order to comprehend that words were spoken to him.

Scoffing lightly, he spoke solemnly. "Commanding me now, are you?"

She could not see his face and did not know if his eyes were as pointed as his voice. Chancing a hunch, she hoped it would not end with his ire.

Untangling their hands closest to the window, Sansa unfolded herself from his back, immediately feeling the loss of warmth and repose. Sansa took careful steps, rounding her way to the front of him again. Her other hand kept its hold on his, and when she faced him and gently tugged.

"Yes," she answered softly.

He looked defeated, tired and utterly incapable of the want or desire to retaliate when she tugged his hand again. Relief rolled through her when his arm gave then stretched, allowing her to lead him back to their bed. They had come to a slightly stumbling stop at the foot of it when Sansa squeezed his hand once more before letting it go and walking the rest of the way to the side she slept on.

He watched her from where he'd halted and admitted to himself that the sight of her, in her pale yellow nightdress awash in moonlight, was nothing short of ethereal. In the same breath, he chalked up his sentimentality to the impressive amount of wine he had consumed.

When he joined her - first straightening the coverings that were in disarray from his mad scramble out - he climbed in, laid on his side, and settled with his head on the pillows. It wasn't until she spoke that he realized his wife was sitting higher, more upright.

"Will you tell me?"

Her voice was sincere, no trace of callow youth in it. And perhaps that was what made his mind up for him. He didn't change his position, just talked to her hip - which was in his line of sight - such as it was in the fading moonlight.

"Jaime." He took in a deep breath, he really wasn't prepared for this. "He has been..." another deep breath, "injured."

Tywin did not have to see his wife to know she was considering his words. She no longer wilted under the slightest pressure to think independently, to offer her own thoughts and opinions outside those rehearsed and ingrained in highborn girls from a young age. However, she still took longer than he normally had the patience for. Tonight was different though, in that his day-long anger had drained even his intolerance.

"Grievously?" She finally settled on.

"Yes, but not in the capacity to kill him, apparently." Tywin almost groaned out his next words. "His sword-hand has been... removed."

Sansa inhaled sharply at his words. Even a vague description conjured the most vivid of memories. She knew what the separation of flesh looked like, sounded like, smelled like...

All at once she was terrified. Ser Jaime had been long ago captured and detained by northern forces.

"It wasn't..." It came out almost frantic, until she caught herself and calmed her tone. "My brother didn't do it, did he?"

All she could think was that this might have been some sort of retaliation for her marriage, but then thought against it, knowing her husband would have made sure that she was fully aware of _that_ kind of detail. She felt him rise then at a startling speed. The next thing she knew her husband was almost in her face, she could smell the stale wine on his breath.

"No, it wasn't your _precious_ _brother,_ " he hissed.

She held his glare. Sansa was about to question his sudden flare of anger when his face wore a look of pain, like Tywin had been physically struck. He scoffed then, in her face, before lowering himself to a laying position again. The air that had coughed out of him was acrid and caustic, and she didn't know if she wanted to hear any more.

When he settled again, he spoke.

"No." His tone was again built of fury, she could feel the immediate area of bed shivering with it. "No, it was _my own_ gold that paid to render my only capable child _useless_."

One sentence threw so many implications, Sansa was still digesting them when Tywin continued.

"You're a fool if you don't expect someone in your employ to cross you, but _this_ was unpredictable." He was drained again, his burst of anger leaving him spent.

Of everything he said, Sansa focused on the one thing she thought unfathomable.

"The injury is... significant... But surely Ser Jaime is not _useless_."

"How is it that the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, _the Kinglsayer_ , is anything _but_ useless when he lacks that with which to wield a sword?"

It wasn't the words that horrified her, though they were vile enough, it was the casual tone with which he dismissed his son. Tywin waved away his flesh and blood as easily as he would clothing he didn't like the colour of.

To her, this was something foreign - so _abhorrently_ foreign. She tried to think of her own father making the same assessment of any one of his sons, even his daughters, but she could not. She simply drew a blank at her father reacting in such a brutally callous manner.

"He is still _your son_ , Tywin." It was supposed to come out cautiously but there was enough passion behind it, it prompted her husband to raise his head and look at her.

" _My son_ made his choice when he opted for white instead of red and gold." He sounded almost petulant.

Sansa knew then that this had nothing to do with a wound, and everything to do with a father carrying the grudge of a perceived slight from his son. She never thought she would be given reason to, but she pitied the man beside her.

Tywin was still looking at her as she contemplated, until she looked at him levelly.

"Would you have placed yourself in harms way in order to spare your son his injury?" It was said in such a confident manner, Sansa momentarily thought it had come from her husband's mouth not hers.

He just looked her. When he had not answered, she feared the worst.

Pulling her brows together, looking almost offended, she started, "You would-"

He cut her off, but what was more striking was the depth of sincerity in his reply. "No Sansa, I would not have allowed him his injury."

When his wife smiled at him, at his words, Tywin lived a queer feeling of accomplishment. When her features returned to serious, he had an even queerer feeling that she was about to revoke that accomplishment.

"Then why would you _allow_ him to be useless?"

He did not have an answer for that. He would have much rather seethed at her presumption and accusation, but he couldn't. She was right. She was right, and she might as well have carved out his flesh for the amount of hurt his pride was suffering.

Tywin rolled over and laid on his back, bringing a hand over his eyes - the wine already taking its toll.

"You have no idea, Sansa. No clue what it is to have to rise above the defamation of your name. _This..._ " Heshook his right hand to accentuate what he was referring to. "This is more fodder to overcome."

It was her turn to scoff. And that she did. Forcefully.

Tywin removed his hand from his eyes and turned his head toward his wife.

"My family are traitors, my lord." It wasn't in the normal monotone of her rehearsed frivolity, it was almost haughty. "The ones that still live and war are wanted dead." Her fire began to dim, she sounded worn in her own right. "I have an idea _._ "

Lord Tywin wasn't phased by her outburst, but he wasn't boastful either. "It seems you have been south of The Neck too long, my lady." He sounded like this was something she should already know. "You are a Stark, your family have an established lineage of over eight thousand years."

She _did_ know that, though it had been shamed away as of late.

He propped himself back on his elbows, if only to be at the same height.

"Your father died a martyr, your brother was crowned a king _because_ of his death." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, tired yet again. "No, my lady, your legacy is more than secure - regardless of opinion, regardless of the outcome of any war."

She did not know how to respond. Sansa just assumed that the overwhelming opinion was the same one she had been inundated with - that her family were no more than treacherous criminals, that her blood was tainted. Sansa wondered then if Tywin had married her in part for her name, not just whatever claim he could squeeze out of it. If perhaps part of his motivation was based solely on the prestige he felt it could lend his own.

 _Of course he did. Of course it was._

Lord Tywin Lannister would know the calculated value of the Stark name more than those who bore it.

She looked at him then, his eyes were closed and he was still leaning on his elbows. He looked peaceful. Well in contrast to the demeanour he had cast all day.

Whatever drive she had to once again mull the purpose of Lord Tywin's actions toward her, or her family, or the North, or whatever else fell to suspicion, had been thoroughly exhausted for this night. So instead she focused her efforts on her initial intent.

He felt the tingling warmth of her fingers on his face. She liked touching him, he knew, though she rarely did it without the context of physical intimacy.

The thought of bedding his wife made him harden.

He never could, nor would, chastise his attraction to Sansa in that way, but his current limitation would be in his ability to follow through. However, when he felt her fingers trace his jaw, over his neck, across his shoulder, and down his arm, he knew she wasn't inclined to that particular activity either.

Tywin felt her curl her fingers around his upper arm then tug, much like she did with his hand earlier, and he could only determine that she wanted him to follow her momentum.

He acquiesced lazily. Barely opening his eyes, he rolled over to his side, and further, following her guiding hand. She placed it on the back of his neck and led him to lay down.

When he did, his head was resting on soft warmth. He could hear a steady rhythm in the vicinity of where his ear was pressed.

It was the smell of her body that seduced him into calm and comfort, but it was the feel of her hand stroking the nape of his neck and down his back that caused him to bring his arm around her middle and give in completely.

...

..

.


	8. Red I

...

..

.

Sansa never knew if her letters were ever really sent. She had written more than a dozen - one a fortnight - and had yet to receive a reply.

Tywin informed her that correspondence in times of war was a difficult proposition on the outset. A prospect further complicated because her mother was embedded in Robb's host, and ravens would more than likely be shot down well before they made their destination. He also informed her that her letters were being routed through to the edge of the Westerlands, as close to the Riverlands as possible, in order to help alleviate the suspicion of a message coming from King's Landing.

It wasn't as though she didn't believe her husband. He was many things, but he had yet to lie to her - that she was aware of.

Regardless, there were pangs - _there were always pangs -_ of wary apprehension in her life and in her marriage. Although, just as she had adapted to captivity after the death of her father, she was adapting to responsibility as the wife of the Hand of the King, the wife of Tywin Lannister.

However, what worries she had did not prevent her from writing. It was a small act of freedom in her daily subjection to people and events, and hospitality requiring her carefully arranged courtesies and recently acquired social eloquence.

Sansa could smile now, though at those first feasts and banquets she was mandated to attend she had been terrified. Spending most of those evenings tucked close to Tywin - being previously instructed to observe only - he would either place her snugly at his arm or just behind his arm. The latter normally in conjunction with conversing with Lord Tarly or Lord Tyrell.

If found engaged in conversation in those days - she smiled wider at the memory - she had held a look suggesting she'd been struck dumb altogether. But she watched, and inevitably learned. When Tywin would speak on her behalf, he was cleverly redirecting a question or entrenching the conversationalist in a verbal quandary.

Sansa was unable to convey intimidation through her words like her husband could, but when she coupled the confidence that the course of her marriage helped her to exude with her natural courtesy, the result was a sincerity that had the ability to disarm. Which was usually enough to allow her to steer and control any conversation.

For the first time in her life Sansa had power and it was her own. Not because she was the daughter of Eddard Stark, or the betrothed of Prince Joffrey, or the wife of Tywin Lannister, it was something she had created and cultivated _herself_.

She was proud of it, for the most part. Proud of herself, for the most part.

Her husband, too, was proud of her. Not that he ever said as much, nor given her any outward encouragement. Instead, he had developed a habit of engaging large groups of high lords and ladies in conversation only to exit abruptly, leaving his wife to continue in his stead.

That was his praise, she knew, and sometimes she felt awash in his version of pride and recognition. Other times though, she felt like a novelty. Something new and shiny being put on display for the appraisal and amusement of others. It struck close to what she had felt when Joffrey would single her out, but those moments were thankfully fleeting.

She pulled her focus back to the missive she was composing.

The letters to her mother - since the first one - had always opened with her feelings laid bare; the fact that she missed her and Robb immensely, that she wanted nothing more than to reunite with them, and that she loved them - that last part she repeated throughout her letters.

She had mentioned Arya the first time she wrote, told how she hoped her sister had made her way to them, but Tywin scratched it out and informed her she would have to rewrite the whole thing. Since then even the vaguest of references of her sister were eventually crossed out and left absent on the final draft.

When Sansa had asked why she wasn't allowed to mention her sister, Tywin simply told her she knew the answer. His non-question questions and his non-answer answers always saw her resorting to careful deliberation.

It was frustrating sometimes. Much like trying to find a door in the dark, fumbling until you touch upon something familiar - such as her brother and mother not _actually_ knowing Arya was missing. Though, it did not stop her from writing about Arya in the first place. It seemed quite fitting that her rebellious little sister would be her own silent rebellion.

Her marriage was only mentioned in her first letter and what she had written her family was truthful - that her Lord husband had been generous, and that she was regarded amiably. How could she convey the greater truth in words? That her marriage was changing her in ways she had never considered as a young girl growing up in Winterfell. She was no longer _that_ Sansa - with a head full of songs and a heart reserved for a golden prince.

But then, she thought to herself, she could not imagine the ways in which Robb and her mother had changed in the few years since their separation and through all the loss and the pressures of a war.

She sat contemplating her words, idly roaming her eyes over Tywin's desk, searching for inspiration when her focus was drawn to the edge of a parchment sticking out quite far from under a haphazardly arranged stack. She could read two visible words: _young wolf_.

It would be treason if she were to be caught rummaging through the communications of the King, but she couldn't live with herself if she did not at least look. Her husband wouldn't know, and he _was_ continually prompting her to take an interest in the work that was his duty.

Sansa extracted the document as though it were the fragile petal of a dried flower and turned it upright in order to read:

 _Wedding organized. Festivities to last one night._

 _Several courses to serve - trout, northern game, and young wolf._

 _We thank Your Grace for helping cover the expense in trying times_.

Her mouth went dry and the back of her neck felt like it was covered in needles.

She wasn't necessarily skilled in logic and deduction, but this wasn't written by someone overly clever. The implications of the letter were abundantly clear: the King was supporting a plot against her brother, against her mother, against the North.

Tywin made sure she attended gatherings of political figures, expected her to speak and relate to them. She _knew_ her brother married a Westerland girl, breaking his oath to Lord Walder Frey.

The men she spoke with at those gathering thought it was the greatest game, trying to vex the Hand's Stark wife by speaking ill of her family. What they didn't know was she had been playing _that_ particular game longer than the bloody war had existed. She also knew her mother's brother had been negotiated in place of Robb, his wedding upcoming at the Twins...

Sansa found herself scrambling for the nearest vessel and purging what she ate to break her fast, and what felt like every ounce of strength holding her up. Her mind sparked and popped erratically, like wet wood taking to fire. Her fingertips were cold, her feet were cold as well. She had felt this way before...

Her body was reacting to shock.

It was as though she were watching herself from somewhere above, she could see herself rinse her mouth and push away from the basin, then walk briskly to the desk and snatch up the letter that sent her reeling to begin with. There was a surprising feeling of calm covering her like the warmth of a blanket, it was chasing away the coldness that had crept in.

As Sansa exited into the large passageway beyond their apartments in the Tower of the Hand, her guard followed in a natural progression.

She knew her husband would be in one of two places, council chambers or the map room. The latter, as her husband had explained, a necessity with Stannis Baratheon still a threat. There was always case to investigate strategy and tactics. She made her way to council chambers and it wasn't until she neared the doors that she even considered Joffrey - that he may be in attendance - and what she found halting was that she cared not one whit.

Her focus was clear and she had a mission.

There was only one castle guard outside the doors to the chambers, indicating council had convened in the map room. Sansa did not even bother to ask, she simply turned abruptly and proceeded up the stairs, her guard forever in tow.

Rounding the final corner she saw two Gold Cloaks and Tywin's personal guards standing by the doors. She knew then that her assumption was correct.

Upon reaching the entrance, both the sets of guards seemed puzzled by Lady Sansa's appearance, but the Gold Cloaks moved to cover the doors out of habit.

"I need to speak with my husband, please announce me." She was polite and courteous, as expected.

It was the burliest of the two Gold Cloaks standing guard who addressed her. "Apologies m'lady, council is restricted to those already attending."

Sansa narrowed her eyes at the man, her patience was running thin and her anger was almost uncontrollable. "Do you know who my husband is, Ser?"

The man was somewhat taken aback. "Yes, Lady Lannister, of course-"

She didn't bother to be horrified or cringe at her name, she simply talked over him. "Would you care for my husband to know _your_ name, Ser? The name of the man that kept his wife and urgent business away from him?"

She had never used her husband as a weapon, perceived or actual, and while people gave her a wide berth in general because of Tywin Lannister it was something altogether new to wield his name like a sword. Exhilarating in fact.

The burly guard and his companion exchanged looks before Sansa said in a tone of total authority, "Announce me."

The smaller Gold Cloak nodded and set to pushing the large wooden doors open, but before he could make his way inside and announce Lady Sansa as decorum stated, Sansa had already started to push past him.

It was her own guard that gripped her elbow lightly, trying the stop her from disrupting the meeting. "No my lady, please wait..."

But she shrugged out of his grasp before he could finish, far too livid and anxious to care.

Sansa shoved her way into the map room and must have looked a fright because Lord Tywin immediately stood, flashing a look of panic before settling back to severe, then flicked a glance at the men outside the door who allowed this to happen.

Her vision narrowed, her only focus was on her husband exclusively. Tywin met her halfway into the room before she choked out her words.

"You _can't_!" Her voice was shaking in anger, she was clutching the parchment in her fist and holding it up to him.

Tywin looked at his wife in furious confusion, until his vision settled on the nondescript seal of the letter.

It was his turn to offer words of equal temperament, only his were aimed at the men inside the room.

"Everyone out!"

He flicked a glance at Kevan, giving a silent command that his brother understood immediately. When Tywin looked back down to his wife, she was icy stiff in her own fury, something that melted as soon as the last man exited and Tywin gripped her wrist like a vice - the one that had been extended holding the parchment.

"Are you spying, girl? Is that how you _honour_ me?" His grasp tightened. He knew it hurt her but did not care.

She pushed through it by setting her jaw and kept looking at him.

Her words were calm, measured, and spoken around the pain she was enduring. "I'm not _spying,_ my lord. I was preparing another letter for my mother, and this," she shook her proffered hand as much as his grip would allow, "was sitting opened. I saw my brother's name... I couldn't _help_ but read it." Her fear and sadness seeped into the last sentence. Her face followed suit, the stiffness of her features softening to worry.

"You cannot condone this, my lord. The King cannot condone this..." She was losing her fury altogether, her boldness had drained her.

His chest was tightening, he felt more than embarrassed or offended by her actions and accusations. He felt betrayed.

"And who are you to demand anything of me, girl?" It was all but snarled out at his wife. "Do you think me some old fool willingly lead by a cunt? _Is that what you think of me?!_ " He shook the fist wrapped around her wrist as violently as he spoke his words.

His coarse language took her by surprise, her husband rarely, if ever used it. Yet Sansa would not be frightened nor cowed, not in this matter. It was too close - _she_ was too close.

"My lord, I am your _wife._ I am going to be the mother of your children." She all but pleaded to the man.

She watched as Tywin dropped her wrist, stepped back and looked her up and down. Raking his view over and over, his face softening to one that looked distinctly boyish. Until he met her eyes again, then his features slowly formed an ever-deepening scowl.

It was _his_ voice that was now shaky, but it wasn't in anger. "I thought you... I _trusted_ you!"

She could hear the hurt in his words and it crushed her with the urge to reach for him, to touch him. It was an utter conflict of emotions within her. At the same time, her mind was trying to determine exactly _why_ Tywin would be hurt...

Yet another door found by fumbling in the darkness.

"No..." He didn't seem to snap out of his hurt. " _No!_ " She practically yelled the word at him, it rendered the desired effect. "I am _not_ with child, my lord." She softened her tone, but it still projected urgency, "But I will be - and it will be our children that will carry this shame."

Tywin furrowed his brows sharply.

She knew she struck a chord with him. Specifically: putting into question his legacy.

Sansa begged her mind to comply, to calculate at a rate it had never been taxed with.

"You fought and sacrificed to win back the dignity of House Lannister, and _this_..." Again she shook the letter, but this time she raised it to just below his eye level in order to regain his focus and ensure his attention. "This will surely burn your efforts to the ground."

He flicked her hand out of his face and seethed, "Our name is not connected with _this._ I did not win back _anything_ by being stupid, child."

 _Child_ , she had to ignore it and move on. She knew very well he slung subtle insults when he felt cornered, she had seen him do it on the rare occasion it happened. They were meant as redirection, but she knew better than to be baited. She had been _taught_ better than that. Instead she willed her mind, with all her might, to produce the pictures needed for the story she had to tell.

"No, my lord, _our_ name will not sign the order, you're right, but _our_ gold will be placed in the hands of those that carry out the deed. The crown, _our_ daughter, _our_ grandson, will be rewarding the men engaged in this treachery." Those titles felt like blades in her mouth.

Sansa was grasping at the first things that came to her, but her husband looked engaged so she continued.

"And you know as well as I do that the entirety of Westeros recognizes that it is _Tywin Lannister_ who rules, and has since before the rebellion." She caught her breath and added with renewed energy. "I grew up in the _barbaric north_ and knew this!"

It wasn't a lie. She had sat silently around conversations between her father and his bannermen discussing and recounting those very details.

Tywin _was_ listening, he was not simply humouring his wife. She could see his jaw flexing and working, his eyes never left hers. It was the thought of her father that supplied the next chapter of her tale.

"Do you not see? Guest Right is older than us all, and it's held in a higher regard than liege lords and kings on thrones."

When he narrowed his eyes slightly she knew she was skirting too close to frivolity.

Tywin spoke calm and collected then, not _at_ his wife but _to_ her. "Why would the crown want to continue in months of war when it can be ended in one night?"

Her mouth spoke instantly, " _Anything gained easily has the highest of prices_ , that is what you told me."

She wanted to get on her knees and cry and wail and beg, but knew it would only eradicate her efforts.

" _This,_ Tywin, _this_ action," she shook the letter again, "will have the highest price of them all."

She then settled for the ugliest of honesty. "My lord, if this happens, _you_ will persevere by reputation alone, but _you_ will die, and whatever protection that your name offers will be buried as well." She was starting to feel defeated. "Any children you leave behind will have to answer for this, and House Lannister will have all but died with you."

She opted for a final truth to end it then, it was all she had left in her.

"You do this, Tywin, and you will forfeit the North."

She blinked slow and calm, unafraid. Sansa hated what she was about to say, hated herself for even offering it. She sounded so, so tired.

"Kill Robb Stark in battle, my lord. Allow him to die the death befitting the king they have crowned him, and you will still have a chance for the North." It was an effort for her to keep from retching. "If you support his death in this manner, my eight thousand year old name will be worthless to you."

There was nothing but silence between them. It accentuated just how heavily Sansa was breathing - as though she had been running throughout their entire conversation.

Lord Tywin stood up straighter, never taking his eyes off his wife.

Sansa could see the strategic ticking of scenario and endgame in the way his vivid green eyes would alternate focus on each one of hers. She knew he was both deep in thought and highly alert.

After what felt like hours his eyes squared on hers suddenly, no longer twitching, and she gasped inwardly.

His features did not move, did not betray one crumb of emotion before he nodded at her deep and sturdy, without taking his eyes off hers. He offered no verbal confirmation or acknowledgement, just that one nod and Sansa wasn't confident enough in herself to truly decipher it. But the solemn posture and expression he held gave her hope that her words had been absorbed and considered.

It was all she could ask for.

She had the urge to reach out to him, touch him or hold him, but refrained for fear of ruining what she had just accomplished.

It was Tywin who reached first.

He put his hand on her shoulder, not ungently, maintaining their eye contact, and drew easy circles with his thumb over her collarbone.

She knew he wanted to say something, his jaw was flexing again. Instead he used his hand to turn her toward the entrance of the room. When Tywin ushered her to the door he turned to his brother and instructed him to escort Sansa back to their apartments, and in the same breath he instructed the two soldiers standing sentry to seize Sansa's guard and take him to a cell.

Sansa immediately turned to question what was happening. She saw absolute fear blazing in the eyes of her young guard, and the stony impassiveness in her husband's.

"Wha-" She started to protest, but was swiftly turned away by Ser Kevan.

"Keep walking, my lady. Please." His voice was soft and affable, it wasn't so much a command as it was a request.

Ser Kevan kept a hand on her elbow, pointing her in the direction they needed to travel.

"But, why is-"

Turning once again, she couldn't understand why her guard was being detained. She wanted to see and, more so to know. Ser Jerrod had been her guard since her wedding day, she considered him a friend of sorts - she knew of his family, his wife and new child...

And again she was cut off by her husband's brother gently turning her back around.

"There is nothing that can be done behind you, my lady. You must go forward."

She heeded him. Ser Kevan was kindly but he was also a large man that could easily overpower her. And as she looked up at him, she noted even his expression was like the his voice and touch - gentle - a complete contrast to her husband.

As they walked, his words were sinking in. They were far more than flippant instructions. When she regarded him again he looked down at her and offered a small smile. It was genuine and spoke of understanding. Although they interacted almost daily, Sansa didn't know Lord Tywin's brother well. He was always polite and courteous, though he never offered more than the most general of conversation. She had assumed that he was of the same, albeit more quiet, mind as her husband. In the past handful of minutes however, she became keenly aware that Ser Kevan was far more than what he allowed others to interpret.

Much like herself, she supposed.

They walked in silence until they were securely inside the sitting room of her apartments. At which point she turned to Ser Kevan.

"Why?" She asked. "Why would he arrest Ser Jerrod?" It came out more high pitched and whiny than she intended, but she cared more about the answer than she did her tone.

Kevan Lannister looked at the girl in front of him, for that was what she was - a girl - and could easily recognize that she knew the answer to her own question and was seeking some sort of assurance that her assumption was incorrect.

He held a look of thoughtful knowing. "Everything has a price, my lady."

Her face looked pained as she glanced down and away from him.

Ser Kevan crouched slightly in order to look at her more directly and took each of her hands in each of his. "You _knew_ that though." He quirked his lips slightly when she looked at him again, her eyes speaking the words her mouth refused.

She felt as though she wanted to cry, but held it at bay.

"It should be me," she whispered.

Even under his gentle stare, Sansa was under a crush of weighted emotion and had to look away again.

Kevan's features dropped, he knew exactly what she was feeling, but it had been such a long time since he'd experienced it himself.

"Lady Sansa, do you understand Tywin's message?"

Sansa took a deep breath and contemplated what had unfolded, then she took that sequence of events and perceived them as though she were her husband. Understanding made her feel physically ill. Not because comprehension in general was overwhelming, but because the death of a man could have been prevented if she weren't so impulsive, so selfish.

Hindsight was never fair, and she immediately thought of the first time this type of behaviour caused a man to lose his life - her father. Her tears could not be stopped then. She wasn't sobbing, but there were great rivers of tears making their way to the collar of her gown.

When she spoke, it was to Ser Kevans' boots. "The Hands' wife sought to control him - in front of the King's council." her voice sounded as though it had been dragged over a league of rough road. She looked up at the man in front of her. "And he would not be thought of as such. An example had to be made."

Kevan nodded and lightly squeezed the hands he was holding on to. "That's right," he said kindly.

However, he could see in her eyes that the burden was still too heavy.

"Did Tywin listen to you, my lady?"

She took a moment to ruminate, then answered honestly and quietly, "Yes, ser. He did."

Ser Kevan tilted his head ever so slightly, his look was on the edge of disbelief before he barely broadened his smile and spoke confidently. "Then, my lady, _you_ have succeeded where kings have tried and failed." That it was a hard-learned lesson went unspoken, but was emphatically understood. He gave one more tiny squeeze to her hands before letting them go.

His smile remained in place as he nodded a bow and took his leave of her.

Sansa watched him exit and could not help but think that while he and Tywin were brothers they were also very different. She guessed that was the way of things - even in her own family. Robb was always so different from Jon... Then she hoped, hoped with the ferocity of the animal that represented her - _both animals -_ that whatever she could impart on Tywin today would ensure that difference remained in the world.

When her handmaid entered the room Sansa asked for wine, then privacy.

The significance of what happened was heady, she needed time to digest not only the impact of finding the letter and confronting Lord Tywin, but also the ownership of one more life on her hands.

A price paid.

More blood through her fingers. Some days she felt as though she were drowning in it, all the blood. Nights were worse, that was when she could taste the copper and hear the voices of the dead.

Before her marriage she would wake up alone and shaking, screaming for her father. Now she wakes up to a warm hand settled on the center of her chest, and a calm voice pulling her out of her terror like a lifeline.

She succumbed to her grief then, the waves of sorrow crashing through the storm of herself.

Sansa wept for them all. For Ser Jerrod, for his family, for her father, for her family, for every single person dead and gone because of her. Always a heavy cost, but she clung to the knowledge that the price was for the greater good, not just for her or her own family, but for the realm. That it would alleviate an atrocious precedent.

It just made her cry all the harder.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa was still seated in front of the dwindling fire when Tywin returned to their apartments. He was exceedingly later than normal, but it was to be expected that night. She had had no appetite and lost her concept of time being so wrapped up in her thoughts. So much, she didn't hear her husband enter the room, let alone approach her.

He stopped in front of his wife, the tension still thick between them, and wanted to address the matter and be done with it, but it was Sansa who spoke first.

"My guard-"

She sounded calm, though it did not stop Tywin from putting an end to that line of conversation then and there.

"Is being replaced with one that will steer you _away_ from stupidity."

His tone was equally calm, and it caused her guilt to double in size. But in doing so, it also sparked the kindling of anger that was tucked away in her thoughts. The one question she forced herself to dismiss, if only for the sake of her own sanity, was now in the forefront and could not be ignored.

"How long have you known?"

She was hypnotized by the guttering flames, not affording her husband even the slightest of glances, but her voice was shrewd.

Five words ensured that his expectation to put the issue to rest was shattered. He spoke annoyed as he walked away from her to sit at his desk, and said, "Many moons."

She did not know if she should be more angry at the nonchalant manner used to divulge his prior knowledge of the potential murder of her mother and brother, or the fact that he had known for _that_ long. He had supped with her knowing it, had talked about countless other trivial matters knowing it, had _bedded_ her knowing he was plotting the demise of her family.

A wave of shame shuddered down her.

"I hate you." It was said with the utmost sincerity. Still, she observed only the hearth.

Tywin scoffed at her, light and airy, as though his wife just made an amusing comment on the weather.

"If it pleases, my lady."

His mocking of her was enough to ignite her banked fury into a full-on rage. Sansa stood at an alarming rate and spanned the distance between the sofa and his desk in the barest of heartbeats.

She was standing in front of the large piece of furniture, gulping and heaving breaths, shaking in her hurt and anger, and he couldn't stop himself from pushing her. Couldn't stop himself from seeing exactly where her ire would lead her - them both. The corner of is mouth tilted up, his eyes narrowed, and he spoke in a sickly-sweet tone.

"Lady _Lannister_."

In one vicious swipe of her arm, Sansa cleared his desk of every page and parchment and, as if it were part of her furious choreography, planted both hands palm-down before settling her glare at him.

But violence was Tywin's dance. It was second nature for him and nothing to grab her wrists to pull her over his desktop; leaving her bent at the waist, toes barely finding purchase on the floor, head resting just past midway with one cheek flat against the grain of the wood. Quick as a snake, he swung both of her arms behind her back, pinning them there with only the strength of one of his hands.

He wasn't as furious as his wife but, then, his calm exterior was always part of the ploy - meant as a lull, meant as a warning, meant to frighten.

He only had to sway forward slightly and lean down at the shoulders before his mouth was next to her upturned ear.

"If you insist on acting like an animal, I will treat you as such," he rumbled low and long. "I will find you separate accommodation, remove your freedom and bed you as duty requires." He placed his lips on the shell of her ear and all but whispered, " _Is that what you would prefer?_ "

Sansa was breathing heavily, face pulled tight in anger but she wasn't struggling.

" _No._ " The word was more air than anything, edged in her fury, but it was the truth nonetheless.

Tywin removed his grip from her hands and let her arms fall to an almost natural palm-up position on either side of her. His hand then gently traveled up her back until it found a new home on her neck, his grasp wasn't dangerous, but it was firm.

Again he lowered his mouth to her ear, this time his voice, while stern didn't carry the same venom. "Hate me if you must; as you should." He took a deep breath before continuing. "But _this_ ," he lightly squeezed her neck for a beat, " _This_ will get you killed."

He could see her body tense as he spoke.

"You need only speak to me, Sansa, but you will do so with _respect._ " His voice became agitated. "You will do so with the tact befitting _my wife_ , not some unmuzzled whelp."

" _You lied to me_." Sansa ground the words out, they were catching in her throat.

She could no longer find it in herself to cry and it made everything come out angry instead. She fisted her hands into the fabric at the side of her gown. She was laid out and held down on a desk - she was beginning to feel a fool.

His words were measured and heavily enunciated. " _I did no such thing._ " It was as if she had accused him of treason.

Sansa tried to will herself to calm. "The letter-"

Tywin would have none of it, his threadbare patience was now completely gone. "That _fucking letter_ ," he hissed at volume, "had been openly sitting on this desk for over a sennight! Does that speak to you of lies and deception?!" The hand he kept on her neck was tightening in tandem with the raising of his voice. " _Does it?!_ " He shook his hand slightly, as though to rouse her.

"N-no. It doesn't." Sansa was trying to comprehend, calculate and listen all at the same time.

His grip loosed a shade and he took a deep breath - reigning himself in.

"I didn't lay that letter at your feet because it was none of your business. If you wanted to make _it_ , or any of them, your business you've had every opportunity for the better part of a year. The choice has always been yours, Sansa. I sit here _every_ night and you choose everything outside joining me." He squeezed her neck a tiny amount. "I am neither your father, nor your mother, I have no bloody interest in dictating your personal routine." And added as an afterthought, "Save you giving me reason to."

She could hear his deep intakes of air, his fingers tapping a pattern on her neck before locking a slight grip again.

"You've got what you wanted, my lady," he said through clenched teeth. "This ends. _Now_." He leaned into her ear again. "However, in light of recent events I would strongly suggest you rethink your previous lack of interest in the affairs of the Hand of the King."

Sansa's face was softer but still twisted in turmoil, her angry eyes tried following every move her husband made.

Tywin removed his hand and stood from his chair, his voice harsh and sardonic. "Unless, of course, you feel I need _even_ _more_ embroidered kerchiefs."

He walked away from the desk.

She couldn't see where he had gone and took a moment to regain her bearings before attempting to straighten and stand. It was just as she was about to move to lift herself up from the expansive desktop when she felt a hand wrap itself around the back of her neck.

It was Tywin; she could smell him, hear him breathe.

He did not speak a word, simply applied a consistent pressure to her neck - holding her down.

He wasn't hurting her, but she didn't know his purpose either. When she felt his groin slowly push into her backside her stomach sank in a cold arc of fear.

Her breathing started to speed and shallow.

Tywin pushed harder into her arse, but she could tell he wasn't aroused. There was no hardness. She knew well what his erection felt like straining through his breeches, pressed against her body.

They stayed like that, frozen in their vulgar stance for several minutes. The crackling of wood in the fire, their breathing - his deep and calm, hers making an attempt to be anything but scared - were the only sounds in the room.

She couldn't see him where he stood, her head was turned to the side and pinned down. It added to the unease, the unknown. Sansa felt her husband's fingers squeeze a fraction tighter on her neck, at the same time he pushed a fraction harder into her backside, the front of her thighs picking up more hurt from the where they were pressing into the edge of the desk.

"Anger..." he said, breaking the quiet. He leaned into her even more and surprised her by softly dragging the tip of his finger over the upturned palm of her hand. "...is the first sign of defeat." His tone was completely neutral. There was nothing malicious or threatening in the way he spoke to her, and it brought Sansa to the outer rim of her discontent.

Tywin all at once let go and stepped away.

She could hear his footsteps receding, moving further and further away until the door opened then closed - ending the sound of him altogether.

It was a lesson.

 _This will get you killed_.

Sansa turned her face, brought her arms around and rested her forehead on the sleeves of her gown, thinking, considering. Refusing to move from where she was draped, she found her continued physical and emotional discomfort were required to truly understand.

This was Tywin's way of conveying the consequences of her actions.

She had allowed her anger to control her and it made her weak and give way to her vulnerabilities. She allowed those vulnerabilities to be exploited. Sansa realized that it didn't just speak of being hauled over a desk. She _was_ angry. She had been angry since her father followed through with the Queen's order to kill Lady, since her father was killed, since Arya was lost, since Bran and Rickon...

Even though her perpetual chirping courtesy was able to swallow and mask her fury, it didn't diminish it. No one was able to see her anger, or how it rendered her lacking. The Hound perhaps, but he never understood. No, no one recognized it except her husband.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

Through his actions, Lord Tywin was telling his wife he would not permit her to be soft. Would not tolerate her becoming what so many easily did, because weakness _was_ easy. His abasement of her was exactly what he thought of willful helplessness. However, whether she was going to be weak or strong was _her_ choice. Just as it was her choice to shy away from his business and remain ignorant under the guise of propriety.

Sansa no longer wanted to be weak or unaware, for no other reason than it was what people, other than Tywin, expected of her.

The more she considered the letter, the more it was understood that she could no more blame him for not being proactive than she could for him not making the choice for her. It was hers to make. He wanted her to make her own choices and her own mistakes.

There was success, though. She had managed to salvage a mistake and change his mind, change the course of yet another tragedy that was careening into the Starks. Even if he would not allow her to bask in her success, it did not negate the significance. It did not negate the fact that he respected her for it.

She managed to smile a little to herself.

Every lesson that day was born of heartache, and every lesson that day would _never_ be forgotten.

By either of them.

...

..

.


	9. Red II

...

..

.

His wife had celebrated her nameday shortly before they were married, and Tywin was glad of it.

Not that he wouldn't have wished her to celebrate, in whatever capacity she did at the time, but he would have been bound by duty to entertain and find a gift befitting the stranger she was to him then, and he would have loathed it. But as he watched her now, her nameday come again, enjoying her feast and the guests that surrounded her - as much as one can enjoy being pestered - Tywin confirmed to himself that this was exactly the way it should be.

She noticed him looking and smiled small then; Lord Lannister couldn't help but fall in amongst the throngs of men and women alike who were enraptured by her.

His wife.

He was sure he would have lost her after she stormed into council - after _everything_ that day - yet, for as much as he tried to push her away, remove from her the control she was developing, or separate her from the impact she was having on him, Sansa came back, ever resilient.

Tywin's mind lightened at the memory of returning to what he thought would be an empty bedchamber, and bed, only to find her sleeping peacefully like she would any other evening.

He had scathed when climbing into bed, "I surely thought you would make use of your own chambers, my lady."

Sansa for her part had merely blinked sleepily and spoke as though _he_ were the child in the room, and said, "My lord, anger is the first sign of defeat." Then waited until he was settled before she moved closer, curled up on her side, and rested her forehead against his arm - an action she was still was prone to.

Tywin Lannister knew then he would not be coddled by his wife. Continuing to fight the changes in her that he was both cursing and encouraging was counterproductive and a waste of time. He thought she would be an easy pawn, something to move and use as needed, but his own initiative worked against him when he found that the girl thrived and adapted to the harshest of conditions - _him._ A detail he was a bloody fool, _bloody lucky more like_ , to have not recognized before their marriage.

Mayhaps it was her northern blood, some icy resolve. She had endured countless months of torture without being outwardly broken before _he_ hadever come along. She had simply needed a catalyst in order to transform, and _that_ came in the form of safety. He offered her a shelter, a reprieve from violence and oppression, and it was what was needed for her to step forward and become the next version of herself. He misstep was in not being prepared for it to happen.

She challenged him in a way no woman, or man, had been able to in more than five-and-twenty years, and instead of facing it, he lashed out at it. But his wife was able to take his malice and convert it into knowledge; swallow the humiliation, of which she was an old hand, and use what was left to fortify her.

Sansa never spoke again of the letter, or her guard, or herself on the desk. However, the consequence of his actions that night was that she would not allow him to touch her when they were alone, not even softly. She would move out of his range, gently brush his hand away or politely refuse his attempts to be intimate.

The first time she spurned him in their bed, they had spent almost an hour afterward glancing at each other - him as more of a predator, and her as wary game. In the end it was Sansa who casually turned away and slept while _he_ silently raged and fumed and resisted his fractious knee-jerk want to wake her and fuck her - as was his _right_ whether she willed it or no.

 _Anger is the first sign of defeat._

He had every mind to turn her away the next night, command her to sleep in her own chambers, but when he woke up to her head pressed into his upper arm and her hand resting in a hold on his forearm, the thought of sending her away was forgotten.

As much as he liked to ignore his... _desires_... they were _there_ and they were aggravatingly persistent.

That was two moons ago.

He gave her what she wanted: no physical contact. And in return, Sansa sat with him every night as he sorted, prioritized and corresponded to letters, invoices and assorted legal documentation.

In the first sennight she was a nuisance. He had sent her away the first few evenings with a flick of his hand and a barely concealed insult. However, there she was, night after night; sitting silent, observing at first, reading when he instructed her and inquiring more confidently as the days progressed. After the first moon he had her write her first missive on his behalf.

It was horrid.

In a script full of girlish flourishes, he took the first four copies she wrote and, without a word or glance at what was written, stood up, walked to the hearth and fed the fire with them. She had frowned after the eighth attempt was torn in half and finally asked what was the matter.

"I am neither a whore nor a love struck maiden, I would appreciate if you would refrain from writing Lord Sutter in a hand that suggests otherwise." It had been a statement thrown at her in a completely snarled and brutish tone. He had humoured her inadequacy enough and just wanted her to go away.

Tywin had watched her jaw work, like she was fighting to say something or deliberating an action. He expected her to cry or leave altogether, or both if he were perfectly honest. Instead, she reached for a leaf of parchment and wrote the letter a ninth time, the final time.

It was flawless.

 _Sansa came back, ever resilient._

His wife would outlast them all, he knew that for certain then and there. And to be fair, he could also admit , without a strain to his conscience, that only a lack-wit would not capitalize on it. But now, _now_ it would be as much for her sake as it was his.

 _Legacy._

She was his, and he would make the most of it.

Tywin drifted back from his thoughts and watched as his wife was gifted a scarf by Lady Margaery. When Sansa blushed hot and red while Lady Tyrell laughed, the old lion had to forcibly steer away from his inclination to be cynical of a plot at his expense. His wife had made a friend of the future queen, as much as one could make friends in King's Landing, and before his mind could turn the thought bitter he remembered the friendships held dear by his first wife in the very same place.

He was loath to admit that the thought of Joanna did not hit him with the same empty loneliness it did prior to his marriage to Sansa, and that only made the guilt harder to choke down. He was also very aware as the past year ticked by, thoughts of his first wife were less frequent. As he glanced a look at Sansa again, he was equally aware as to the reason why.

 _A pleasant distraction._ It was the only definition he would allow his mind to grind out.

He flicked his eyes at Lyol, who was standing just outside the servants doors and gave a curt nod.

The steward immediately nodded in confirmation and brought forward the wooden box he had been entrusted with. As he advanced toward Lady Sansa, other servants took their cue and began clearing a space in front of her. Lyol set the box down in front of his lady and smiled when she looked at him and offered a courteous 'thank you'.

The pleasantry, meant solely for him, was still new for the steward. No highborn ever _had_ to acknowledge even the existence of those who served them, but Lady Sansa always had; asking with a polite 'please', and thanking for their service just as sincerely. The older man, even though lowborn, knew a person's worth, and Lady Sansa's could never be contained in a box, no matter how pretty, no matter the contents. As far as he was concerned she was priceless.

Sansa stared at the box in front of her; it was square, almost two of her hand-lengths in each direction, and exquisitely carved in intricate patterns and gold inlaid images of lions. On the front edge of the box there was protruding face of a lion in full roar, made of solid gold, and in its mouth a key was slotted. She turned the key to unlock the box and lifted the lid to find a jewelers bag.

The volume in the room had noticeably dimmed and she could not find the courage to look anywhere except in the box, at the satchel to be precise, before she lifted it out carefully. She was staring at the dark-crimson velvet bag, it was heavy and she knew that this would be the day she was to be draped in Lannister gold.

With a well placed smile and a genuine look of appreciation at her husband, she snapped the lead seal, opened the draw string, and tipped the end of the bag in order to handle the what was hidden inside. In her palm landed not Lannister gold, not the gold the Queen wore, not gold at all as she could see. The metal was grey. It was not silver, she could see that plainly, not so deep as that - it was... brighter.

She moved the piece across her fingers, observing the details. It was a thick woven chain of the grey metal, but interwoven into it was the gold she was expecting. _That_ gold was only an accent to the brilliant grey.

The chain was the width of two or three of her fingers, and the clasp was cleverly hidden as links in the back. The chain dipped lower in the front, where it crisscrossed around itself and within the teardrop loop it made was a large deep red jewel. She was not well versed in finery as some ladies, but easily guessed the gem to be a ruby. It was of the same size and shape as the loop, as though both were made for each other. At intersecting points of the grey metal along the braided chain were clear white jewels, diamonds she was sure - like her mother used to wear on special occasions - set in even intervals.

There were no lions, nothing overtly _Lannister_. Everything that made it was built on subtlety.

It was... No, _beautiful_ was not quite the word she would choose to describe what she thought of the necklace her husband had gifted her. She needed another word, something better, but her mind wouldn't let her get past the mesmerizing grey metal. She turned her head to her husband. He was wearing the same faint and refined look of smugness he normally did when he had the upperhand, when an advantage was exclusive to him alone.

Sansa gave Tywin the smile she knew he was looking for, the one that was meant only for him; made with her eyes as much as her mouth. Her smile was sincere. She meant it truly, and felt no need to hide that fact.

It was a private moment in a room full of people.

"What type of metal is this?" She was idly thumbing along the grooves of the weave.

"Gold," his deep voice answered. Tywin twitched out a smirk at Sansa's incredulous look, and continued, "It is called _white_ -gold."

Taking the piece from her hand, he stood, talking and pacing behind her at the same time.

"It will neither tarnish or corrode. It carries the same properties as the gold you know, just not the colour."

Sansa felt him unclasp her fine silver rope with drips of pearls, removing it, and smiled wider as she watched her new necklace lower into place in front of her. She leaned her head forward slightly as he secured the clasp.

Her hair was worn up and elaborate for this event and it gave him easy access to work as he needed. It also gave him an unimpeded view of her long neck, of the wisps of loose and wild auburn at the base her hairline, of the subtle knob of spine where her neck met her shoulders - accentuated by her leaning forward.

As Sansa tilted her face downward, she flicked her eyes upward in order to watch the people in the room.

It was a relatively new practice she had developed. Casually observing those around her and her husband; watching them react to what she was sure was foreign behaviour from the Great Lion. If he touched her or held her hand or leaned in close to speak to her, it usually resulted in a few heads turned, raised brows and, as was now the case with Cersei, looks of unrestricted hatred.

Every person in the room seemed to focus on them - on her husband specifically. They watched his every move and she could see in the eyes of some men the rather open assessment of risks and possibilities.

They were gauging Lord Tywin for weakness - his wife.

She watched those same men frown in disappointment; their query answered, she could not decide if she herself was disappointed too.

When Tywin finished clasping the necklace, he let his thumb linger on the soft skin at the back of her neck. They were in public, he would be damned if he wasn't going to make the most of it. He took his time, and with his calloused pad, brushed a subtle line above the gold Sansa now wore. He watched, satisfied at the flush of pink ascending from under the neckline of her gown.

The evening proceeded with more food, more wine, dancing and even more gifts; and Tywin tolerated it all. It wasn't that he owed his wife this, or anything at all, but there had been a tug somewhere under the flesh and bone of him that simply _wanted_ this for her.

Every once in a while a small shift in his periphery would summon his attention, and he would watch Sansa. In a movement that looked to be subconscious, she raised her hand and ran her fingertips along the braid of northern-hued gold.

She liked his gift - relished it perhaps - and he was glad of it.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was late into the evening when they returned to their apartments, and although tired from the feast and festivities, there was always work to do.

Tywin assumed his wife would retire after enjoying her nameday celebration, but was pleased when she followed his lead by sitting in her chair behind the desk. Her chair was a comfortably heavy thing; another gift he had commissioned for her. This one in appreciation of her new and truly genuine interest in his work - the reality of regency.

To witness a transformation like hers, from self-imposed ignorance to self-imposed competence, was something he would never tire of. It was the same enthusiasm he implored of Jaime, the same ardour he doused in Cersei, and the natural gift he both equally loathed and ignored in Tyrion. But Sansa was not his child, she was his wife, and her want of knowledge was something he could pride _himself_ in. Regardless of long-held social expectations, the astuteness of one's wife reflected extremely well on that husband.

In that moment, however, he was not observing her learn, he was watching her appraise his other gift.

She had been looking down at the finery since she became seated, smiling at it while her mind worked, her fingers going over the intricate folds, bends and intertwined strands of white and yellow gold.

"It suits you well, my lady," he voiced low. He hadn't truly thought to speak the words.

Sansa looked at her husband and smiled, then quickly dropped it.

"But not this gown, my lord."

She said it in a tone that implied something was truly wrong, that this was a matter of importance. Before Tywin could sneer at her and her foolishness, his wife was striding toward the bedchamber and summoning her handmaids. He blinked quickly to himself and swallowed his irritation. Sometimes he forgot that his wife still had elements of frivolous uselessness, that of a giddy maiden. But this was her nameday, and if he could not afford her some leeway this day, he was sure it would result in other restrictions being placed on him in the following days.

After a while he heard her handmaids leave and secure the servants door.

As he read and jotted notes, he prepared himself to offer whatever courtly nicety that was required for a girl who thought her dress did not match her necklace. He absently practiced in his head how to hide the fact that he just didn't care. At the same time, his periphery picked up her movement as she walked into the room and stopped several paces away from the front of his - _their_ \- desk.

Tywin flicked his eyes at his wife and tried for the life of him not to look annoyed, but what he took in was most confusing. Her garment was overly long, bulky, and dark crimson. His first inclination was to tell her she had made no improvement, until his mind registered familiarity.

It was _his_ robe.

He raised his head then and noticed that his wife was holding his robe around her, her hair no longer pinned - flowing freely down her back and her shoulders.

She wasn't really smiling but her eyes were heated, and in one fluid motion she shrugged the robe off her, letting it pile at her feet. His wife was standing there, in front of him, completely naked save for the necklace he gave her. Lord Lannister had to clench his back teeth in order to stifle the moan that would have tumbled out of his mouth. At the same time, a tidal wave of arousal washed down his body and settled in his groin.

Sansa could see a blaze instantly reflect in her husband's eyes. But just as quickly he looked back down at the work he was involved in prior, and continued his reading and writing. She waited until she was positive he had no interest; positive that she initiated her own humiliation. It was a risk to be sure, but not one she truly anticipated. Though, when she made to turn and ready herself for sleep her husband spoke.

" _Don't..._ " He was still looking down at the letter in his hand, then flicked a fierce glance directly at her. "... _move._ " Then returned his focus to the letter again.

She stood completely still.

Tywin finished his task then took his time clearing parchments and inkwells. Preparing his desk for the next night, as was his habit - not paying the slightest bit of attention to his naked wife. It was only when he stood that he finally allowed himself to look at her. Standing stone-still behind his desk, he mapped every inch of her with his eyes. The fire of her hair, the sky of her eyes, the cream of her skin, the rose of her nipples... He felt his lower back start to perspire.

Her husband had to swallow hard before he was able to walk around the front of his desk - her mind smiled at his effort as she watched. Sansa did not speak a word, simply observed him move no further than several paces in front of her. His chest was clearly raising and lowering more than usual, his hands were clenching and unclenching at his side, his jaw was flexing and grinding...

For a frightening instant Sansa considered regret of what she had instigated, but her husband made no sudden movements. Instead, he slowly placed one foot in front of the other, as though he were taming an animal.

 _...Or hunting one_.

He walked purposefully to a position behind her, but when he went to settle his fingertips on her shoulder she swayed out of range like she had been doing for the past two moons. Tywin's first inclination was to touch her in the way he wanted to, regardless - to _make_ her let him - but his second was to stray from the actions expected of him.

"May I touch you?"

His question was hummed softly, and spoken mostly into her hair. She had grown taller in the past year and he did not have to lean so far in order to become close.

Sansa did not spare her husband a look, but spoke with the sweet voice that was _her._ "Not with your hands, my lord."

He tilted his head and gave her a look that said, _Do you know who you are speaking to?_ , but it was to the back of her auburn tresses, a useless gesture and all. Tywin was at a crossroads. This was where his actions would determine the rest of their existence together. _Face the challenge or lash out against it_ , and his mind was simmering for the latter. It was a choice. _The_ choice, and one she gave him to make.

She closed her eyes and waited. Sansa knew that he could take her in any manner he saw fit - he _was_ her husband and it was his right by law of gods and man - but this was a calculated gamble. This was not something she devised on a whim. Part of her missed their intimacy and yet another part of her _had_ to know what her future with him held.

Lady Sansa stood still and only flinched the tiniest amount when she heard him utter a growling noise behind her, knowing then he would force her. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter and prepared herself for the degradation that was to follow.

Although, when he was on her, Sansa had to blink her eyes open to associate the feeling with a visual representation of the act. Glancing over, she saw his face at her shoulder, his lips planting soft open mouthed kisses across the top ridge, moving toward her neck steadily. He had his arms tucked back behind him, well away from her. Sansa smiled wide and natural - as if it emanated from her heart. A smile she only offered when she was truly happy. It was a rarity. So much so, she once thought it to be extinct altogether.

He stopped kissing her, rested his cheek on her shoulder and angled his vision so he could take in the smile she was wearing. It was something that only seemed to make her lovelier. It was also hypnotizing. Tywin caught himself staring, mouth gaped like a fish, and had to remind himself what he was doing to begin with.

Sansa picked up on that detail and laughed a sound that matched her smile.

Tywin _hated_ laughter. It sparked his ire and suspicion all at the same time. Not this noise, though. No, _this_ was something so beyond mocking, and even humour, that it caused him to look away in what felt like panic. Caused him to plant his lips on her shoulder again. Caused him to press the smallest of hidden smiles into her skin.

Her joy was contagious and he found it impossible to define the right kind of displeasure to associate with it.

He started kissing again, moving closer and closer to her neck, all but breathing, "May I move your hair?"

She could hear him inhaling her scent, growling in the back of his throat. Without a word, Sansa moved her shoulders forward and to the side slightly, and caught her hair herself, moving the auburn bundle to the front of her. His breath was hot on the back of her neck, and when she leaned her head forward, like she had when he fastened her necklace, his groan was loud enough to be felt on her skin. Sansa felt light presses of his lips marching up the back of her neck and playful licks and nips marching back down - it was her turn to groan.

Tywin leaned forward a small amount in order to reach his mouth the side of her neck and under her ear. His chest was resting on her back as he did so, but when he felt her arse press back onto his cock, he sucked in a deep breath and stood up straight.

"Sansa, do that again." When nothing happened, he followed a hunch and added, " _Please_."

He wasn't sure he even spoke until she bucked herself back gently and ground on him. Bending his knees to get the most direct friction, Tywin had to stick his arms straight out to his sides - he was losing concentration by aborting his instinct to grab her hips and pull her onto him harder.

Just as he was starting to lose his bearings, his wife stepped away from him, taking her friction with her.

" _Fuck..._ " It was said purely out of irritation.

Sansa did not look back, just kept walking until she rounded the back of the desk where their chairs were and sat squarely on the desktop, on the soft leather blotter, squarely where Tywin would normally work.

He walked again to his wife, following her path around the desk until he was standing in front of, and over her. Tywin reached for her, his motion gentle and considerate, but his wife stayed his hands by holding his wrists.

" _No,_ " she said softly, her eyes locked to his.

He could read nothing in her impossibly blue eyes other than desire, and it was what was needed to fully extinguish his current frustration. Tywin watched silently as she laid back on the desktop, her body given to him willingly, wantonly. The way it should be.

Lord Lannister would _never_ admit regret or error in any previous action he had taken, but the treatment of his wife two moons ago was edging dangerously close.

Sansa spread her thighs and willed her husband to understand.

He did, of course.

Tywin stepped closer to her. He could feel the heat of her cunt seeping through the fabric of his breeches, making his cock unbearably hard. Growling, he bent and hovered over her upper body, his feet planted on the floor, his hands firmly set to either side of her - not touching. At the same time, she had started to tug and pull at his clothing. Her delicate fingers were masterfully working the equally delicate clasps and fastenings of his doublet. He smirked at her deftness, but was thwarted when he swayed upright again to try and remove it.

The garment was tight in the sleeves and he normally had the help of someone attending him to take it off... Before his frustration could click to fury, elegant hands were again capable - holding firm at his cuff in order to assist. It was exactly what was needed. Doublet removed, he watched as his wife reached for the lower end of his tunic - pulling with a little more fervor to dislodge it from where it had been tucked. It was only moment before that layer was discarded as well.

He covered her again, hands far to the side, this time immersed in the sensation of skin-on-skin. The softness of the skin on her belly was all it took for his mind to begin to blur. He lowered himself even more and groaned slightly at the feel of her hard nipples rubbing into his chest - and equally, the swell of her breasts becoming a fleshy resistance. But it was when both of _her_ hands traveled from his shoulders, down his flanks, made their way into the gap where his breeches had come away from his back and took a firm hold of his arse, that Tywin felt the familiar pang of tightening in his chest. The same pang that had made its way into his life since the onset of his marriage to Sansa. The feeling he now finally, _finally_ , understood... and almost feared.

She made him feel young.

Sansa removed the taunt and worry of age, and as much as he felt it had never mattered before, Tywin lived the truth of it.

Some men lost themselves to drink, some lost themselves to blood and war, and some lost themselves to women - much like his father did. Tywin looked down at his young wife and knew without a doubt he was nothing like his father, that Sansa was _nothing_ like the conniving whore his sire willingly saddled himself wi-

His mind switched over completely when Sansa wrapped her legs around his waist, brought her arms up around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.

She whispered, " _Come back."_ Before fitting her lips over his.

He _was_ indeed lost...

Tywin groaned into her mouth and clenched his fingers hard into the wood of the desk in order to dissuade their craving to travel the expanse of her body. In lieu of his hands he used his tongue and lips to quench his tactile thirst. First her mouth, then her jawline, then her neck. His mouth journeyed down the length of her throat to her chest, where he licked across her collarbone and further down to her breasts. He took his time, savouring each mound and peak with his lips, his tongue and the barest of his teeth. Pressing soft kisses against the sensitive underside of each breast.

Sansa was breathing moans of her own, squirming mindlessly under him with her eyes shut and her fingers digging into the back of his neck.

His mouth moved down her body, his hands remained palms-down on the top of the desk. Her own hands slipped from their hold on him and rested beside her.

She could feel his mouth moving lower and she was curious as to what he had planned once he reached her heat. She asked him not to use his hands, so she assumed he would stand and take her - as was his only option. That was, of course, until he dropped to his knees and placed his mouth on her _there_.

When Tywin pressed his tongue into seam of her quim and licked firmly - all the way from the bottom of her slit to the top - his wife moaned at a volume he was certain she did not register herself. He kept his lips locked over her clit, and was idly flicking it with his tongue while his eyes roamed - first to the door to ensure no one was stupid enough to investigate _that_ noise, then down to Sansa. Her eyes were closed, her body was squirming and arching and shuddering under the attentions of his mouth.

He could feel his cock straining in his breeches, just as much as he could feel it leaking and jumping in anticipation. Relief was needed, and before he could even think about what he was doing, his mouth lifted and spoke.

"May I touch myself?"

It seemed a natural question seeing as she did not want him to use his hands, but he did not know if she meant only on her.

" _No._ "

It sounded dazed in her voice and was accompanied by the wild shaking of her head with her eyes clamped shut.

He should not have said a gods-damned thing.

Tywin opted to inflict his frustration with his tongue, and set to lashing her sensitive knot of flesh with furious abandon. But it was when he moved to her entrance and started to push his tongue inside her that she started to shake and falter. She was no longer moaning and humming, she was groaning out syllables and consonants, never truly finding words. And when she was surely ready to release, he pulled away from her completely - watching her hips churn, as though her cunt were frantically looking for him.

He smirked, having regained an element of control. Sitting up on his knees, Tywin looked over the topography of his wife. Watching her movements diminish, he planted wet kisses on each of her inner thighs.

"May I use my fingers?" He kissed her again, this time closer to her center. "Inside you?"

Her eyes blinked open as she stared at the ceiling; he could see her making her choice. She didn't look at him directly, instead she nodded and let out a breathy, " _Yes_..."

Tywin first licked then pressed his mouth over her heat. Licking and kissing it as though it were her own mouth. Concentrating the movement of his tongue over the most sensitive part of her again, he sucked and flicked until she was bucking once more. He moved only one hand, leaving the other clamped to the edge of the desk, and made room for it under his chin, teasing her opening with first one finger, then two.

Sansa did not last long when he flicked his tongue at a steady cadence and fucked her with two fingers in the same rhythm. Her hands made to hold onto the flat desktop as she lost all control, finding her release in shaky, stuttered movements and random gasps of air. She was so wet, the sound of his fingers working her lather nearly unmanned him.

Her hands were suddenly pushing his head away from her heat, now far too sensitive to even enjoy his tongue.

Tywin sat back on his heels, catching his breath, looking at the part of a woman that was known to both conquer lands and give life. He resisted the urge, once again, to caress his wife - this time out of awe, not want.

There on the floor, his age settled on him like a heavy cloak. His knees were protesting, his lower back was burning and, in a maneuver that was less graceful than he would have hoped, he lifted himself into his chair. Sitting slack, his back curved low, and in a posture that would never be associated with Tywin Lannister, he watched through half lids and narrowed vision his wife descend from her peak. There was nothing else he wanted occupying his view excpet her breasts slowing their rise and fall, the small quivers still rippling through her belly and abdomen, her lips parted slightly, and a rosy blush going no further than her cheeks - signifying the tiniest of deaths.

 _A pleasant distraction..._

Sansa only attempted to sit up when she felt whole again. When she did, she observed her husband sit up a little straighter in his chair. Without a word between them Sansa moved off the desk and, before she trusted them to hold her weight, tested her legs while she was still holding the edge. Once she was sure of herself, she pushed off and made the three step journey to Tywin.

His hands were resting in a usual position on the arms of the chair, so she held onto his wrists as she climbed atop his lap. He raised his knees to help accommodate how she was sitting - further back on his legs than in his lap proper - and when he watched her hands reach for the laces of his breeches, he fully understood the reason for her position.

Again Tywin went to touch her, and again Sansa thwarted his attempt by gently placing his hands back on the arms of the chair. A soft voice telling him, " _No._ "

Anger was starting to trickle into his disposition. Tywin humoured her game this long, but now it was about his need. He was of a mind to tell her to either fuck him or leave, but when she freed his cock and started stroking him in her perfectly dainty hand he, again, fell victim to her _distraction_. He was mulling the fact that one could not be a victim if they were a willing participant when his wife shuffled forward somewhat awkwardly on her knees, leaned up, and kissed him.

This time she didn't have to ask him to come back, she knew how to retrieve him herself.

Their bodies were so close - heating; his cock was so close - rubbing; her mouth was so warm - kissing; her hands were all over him - petting.

It was too much, his vision was blurring.

" _Put my cock in you, girl,_ " he growled into her hair and around deep, uneven breathing. " _Now._ "

Sansa sat up taller on her knees and lined him up to her entrance and watched him watching her sink lower onto his cock. Watched him squeeze his eyes shut as he moaned out a shivering breath.

The position as such was not new to their acts of intimacy, but the confines of a chair was and caused her to grind into him more than move up and down.

After a handful of minutes of his wife's best intentions, Tywin ground out each individual word, " _May I touch you?_ "

Sansa placed a hand on either side of his face and waited until he was looking at her, albeit through wavering lust-filled eyes, and smiled.

"Yes," she said.

The word was hardly spoken before his hands were touching every reachable place on her. It was a flurry of movement, like he could not decide what to do first.

She wrapped her arms around his neck as she felt his hands first move to her backside in order to lift and push her down a few times, then wrap around her in an embrace that pulled her into his body.

His release was barreling in on him.

He held her: one arm around her waist, one arm crossing her back with his hand holding onto her shoulder, tight. The old lion pulled down on each point of contact, trying for the life of him to be as completed with his wife as possible. And when he spent himself as deep within her as he could be, he heard her name on his lips with every huffed exhale.

Tywin did not care. He would say her prayer if it meant feeling like _that_ , with her, again and again.

They stayed that way, her lying flush to his chest with her face tucked into the side of his neck, him still holding her in a tight embrace. His release did not diminish the strength in which he held her. Not until their skin began cooling noticeably. Usually, Tywin would leave her after a few minutes to wash and bring her a cloth to do the same, but this time he merely, mercifully, held on.

Their breathing returned to a normal pattern, and he still held on.

Her calves and feet were starting to tingle with numbness, and he still held on.

When she started to move her face around to his, she noticed her arms were wrapped around his neck and head in the exact manner his were around her body. Sansa inwardly smiled at - and shunned in the same instance - the pretty dreams and ideals their position had unfurled in her memory. She brought her face directly in front of his and was taken by the look in his eyes. He was distracted, a look she knew well to mean he was deliberating, making a decision of some sort.

It was only when his wife kissed him that Tywin was delivered from his thoughts. What he would normally curse as levity, this time he welcomed.

He kissed her back; equally as gentle, equally as long.

Sansa pulled away slightly as if to make sure her husband was alright, he answered by inclining his head toward her. She leaned back a little, watching as he lowered his face and planted a kiss below the base of her throat, directly above where the heaviest part of her necklace hung. He looked up again and she kept gazing at the large red jewel perched high on her chest.

" _Beautiful._ "

Tywin said the word like he was sharing a secret, and Sansa placed her fingers over the gem, smiling.

"It is, my lord."

But when she lifted her eyes to meet his, her smile fell. Not out of fear, not out of turmoil, but of the realization that Tywin had not been looking at the necklace to begin with.

...

..

.


	10. Red III

...

..

.

It wasn't often Tywin sent for her during the day, but when he did, it was normally for her to be of company to Tommen or request her presence on behalf of Cersei. Her lord husband had refused his daughter the right to summon his wife directly; however, when Sansa's attendance was requested, Tywin would always accompany her. So when approached by a Lannister page, a boy she had not set eyes on before, Sansa took his shy, innocuous summons as a call for one of those two standards.

A pause from the seemingly endless study of books and numbers was not so much a chore. If she were in the company of Tyrion she found the task of learning tolerable; alone, and it felt insurmountable some days - much like this day.

Lady Sansa rose with a subtle stretch from the large desk she shared with her husband most evenings and walked through the blazing lines of sunlight that bathed the floor of the Hand's solar, making her way toward grand double doors and to the boy who was now flanked by her guard. Both of whom stood tall, one only as much as his young age would allow, proudly sporting the colours loyal to their liege.

The boy had a new face, but looked very much a Lannister with his golden hair and green eyes. Albeit, the green eyes looking at her presently were very nervous. Sansa knew well the overwhelming feeling of being in King's Landing for the first time - and in the general company of her husband, for that matter.

"Do you know why Lord Tywin has asked for me?" she said as she drew near the two.

The inquiry was for no other reason than to help calm the boy, to sympathize without drawing attention. The effort was for naught when the boy went wide-eyed at her question and all but panicked.

"I- I think there is corre- corres-..." The young lad swallowed a mouthful of air like he hadn't done so in a fortnight, wheezing out, "A letter... Yours... For you, I mean. Lady- My lady." Then, to finish, flushed a shade of crimson his house would surely be proud of.

Lady Sansa smiled at the page and it only seemed to make the poor boy blush hotter.

"Thank you..." Sansa waited for him to supply his name, but the page was at a total loss, and his lady mercifully let him off the hook. "... _Ser_." She finished, without even a hint of mocking.

From behind them, though, her guard was heard sniggering in good humour.

With a slight nod from his lady, the page at once gathered himself and knew to start walking.

They traveled quietly for the most part. Sometimes Sansa let the page lead her, sometimes she gently steered the boy down the correct hallways and corridors, all the while mulling over her letter. She had a good idea as to what it was.

A reply from her mother.

Just the thought of it made her stomach flutter and her smile widen. It had been moons, but she was patient if anything, and now she would finally have contact with her family.

 _Her family._

Sansa had to resist the urge to leave her escorts and start running. _No_ , she chided herself. She had waited this long, a few more minutes were practically nothing. She honestly did not care what the letter might say or not say, as long as she was in communication with her mother and brother.

What she felt in conjunction with the absence of anyone familiar was a physical pain - one she had swallowed and endured for far too long. But to be fair, her husband was no longer such a stranger, and that certainly helped to alleviate some the loneliness that weighed down on her spirit.

There was now a cognition and routine in their relationship. Not to say it was flawless. She still stood in the path of his ire and bore witness to his brand of cruelty, but she was now far better equipped to withstand it and cope when it did occur.

It was enough that she was not _so_ alone, _so_ much.

When she thought of their intimacy, outside their impeccable court persona, it was she who was stained a hue of red that all but painted a picture of what her memory was conjuring. Her knowing smile only confirmed it. She liked that time with him. Tywin was neither a lord nor a lion, just as she was not a dull northerner nor a traitor's daughter. When they were laid bare to one another there was no room for titles or labels. They were merely a man and a woman, no more no less.

Even _that_ journey, she mused to herself, the one to be comfortable with each other privately, required and extensive amount of trial and error.

Now though, in those times, Sansa witnessed heartbeats of vulnerability and moments of happiness in Tywin Lannister, and she could only assume that like her, they were glimpses of the person his life left behind. Not forgotten, no. These were parts of them that lost distance in day-to-day life, then caught up in times of enjoyment. When their hardened-selves were forced to rest, only to be once again pushed to the fore at the mention or action of reality.

Her mind wandered back to her mother.

Sansa could only assume, hope really, that Lady Catelyn would approve of the slivers of peace she had carved out in a marriage that still caused people to grimace and judge at its very mention.

Once communication was established, Sansa planned to help bring maybe not an _end_ but perhaps an interruption to a war that had lasted into a more perilous time.

 _Winter is coming_.

It was the truth of it. Even in King's Landing the days were cooler and the nights were stretching longer.

She knew she would never convince Robb, or the north as a whole, to swear fealty to Joffrey - nor would she want to try - even given the carefully worded suggestions and pretty gifted trinkets from her husband hoping to convince her to do just that.

She smiled again, then let it flatten.

The possibility of actually seeing her mother again was not one she dwelled on for terribly long. Sansa knew her role as the wife of the enemy would have its price, but for even the slightest bit of calm she would gladly pay it, _and_ _continue to pay it_.

When she arrived at the solar behind the Throne Room and was announced, she was somewhat confused that Lord Tywin was alone. Ser Kevan was always there, a living shadow smiling kindly to her from his brother's side. Today, from what she could see, he was nowhere within. Yet his absence would not deter the giddy happiness welling inside her.

When Tywin noticed her, he stood and rounded to the large, extravagant table used as a desk in that room.

She noticed him pick up a parchment as he went and was certain it belonged to her.

His face was ever-serious, but it was also holding a scowling frown. Sansa knew then that what her mother must have wrote was either displeasing to her husband or directly slandering him. She was prepared; there were already mental contingency plans in place to placate whatever wounded pride Tywin might suffer from whatever disapproval her mother or brother may have communicated.

When she got closer she could see clearly that his eyes were agitated like he was angry, so she started the cogs and wheels turning in preparation for tending to his bruised ego. As Sansa stopped within an arms length of her husband, she reached her hand out and ran the tips of her fingers from the top of his collar to the middle of his doublet, and rested her palm there.

His eyes showed surprise at first then softened slightly in the midst of his stony expression.

It was as she had planned. It was when he raised his own hand to caress her jawline that she knew her initial tactics were successful.

Sansa smiled at him and tilted her head slightly, leaning into his touch. At the same time she moved the hand that rested on his doublet over to the letter he was holding, gently plucked it out of his grasp. She moved her face upright, out of his palm, in order to read the parchment, feeling his now empty hand travel down her neck and shoulder, further until it settled on her elbow. He cupped it as though to help prop her arm up, assisting her to read.

The smile she beamed at her serious, humourless husband would not be dimmed. The happiness she felt at finally, _finally_ communicating with her family would not be diminished.

She read:

...

 _Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, Hand of the King:_

 _Rumour of massacre at The Twins of those attending the wedding of Edmure Tully Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord of Riverrun - Confirmed._

 _Ambush against the northern constituency by Lord Walder Frey of the Twins, Lord of the Crossing - Confirmed._

 _Secondary implementation from within the northern ranks, rumoured Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort - Unconfirmed (presumed)._

 _Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, dead - Confirmed._

 _Northern military hierarchy - Both dead and captured (unconfirmed/unreliable numbers and names)_

 _Lady Catelyn Stark, dead - Unconfirmed (presumed)._

 _Northern army scattered, disbanded - Confirmed (varying reports)._

 _More information to follow._

 _Ser Flement Brax, Commander, 2nd Lannister Mounted Company_

 _..._

Sansa's mind was surprised at how calm the rest of her was.

Until the information sunk in...

 _...Robb Stark, dead..._

 _...Catelyn Stark, dead..._

The words filtered through to where they were processed and understood; to the place where the impact of such things caused her throat to thicken and her muscles to shiver.

She felt her husband's hand tighten on her elbow.

Her body reacted before her mind. She was helpless to watch her arm first arc upward then - as it came down strong - her hand slap Tywin squarely in the face. She did not clip his facial hair, there was no muffled thump, there was only the sound of a palm meeting its mark.

It was a sharp pointed noise that pierced the air of the room.

Sansa wanted him to hurt _too_. Her husband _should_ hurt. _He_ should be the one to hurt most of all. She wanted the darkness that was devouring her to swallow him as well. _He_ should be the meal this time, sating the hungry belly of emotional agony. But when she looked at him there was nothing of the smug arrogance that was supposed to be there, there was only a clenched jaw and a look of pity.

She did not want his _pity_! She wanted his _fury_! She wanted to evoke something in him that would ensure she would _feel_ \- feel anything other than squeezing hurt around her heart.

So when she struck him a second time it was with the heel of her hand. The noise that time was not one made of sharp blades but one made of blunt ends.

She did not care.

When the red began to trickle out of his mouth, she did not care.

When he made no effort to harm her in return, she did not care.

The hurt was spreading, making her fingers and toes numb. Her lips were cold and her legs started to ache, her lungs burned with every breath and her jaw was set so tight she thought it would break. The room was beginning to feel like a corset, strings being yanked and pulled from all angles, tightening and binding and suffocating...

She needed to escape.

She needed to be out of the den of lions... and stags... and thorny roses... and whispers and blood...

Tywin still held her elbow and when Sansa made to wrench herself free he held it even tighter.

 _There_ was the pain she had wanted, but that moment had already passed. Now she only wanted to leave.

She wrenched again, glad of the alternate hurt and furious at the resistance. His mouth was moving but the sound was blocked out by ringing in her ears. She wrenched a third time, and thattime she found her freedom. Not that she won it by a show of strength, she had merely been let go.

Her lord husband wore a look he had absolutely no right to - _sympathy_.

She wanted nothing of it. He wasn't allowed that look - not for _her_ , not for _anyone_!

Sansa backed away from the man like he was a disease.

He _was_ a disease; an infection, a plague in her life. As he attempted to reach for her she backed away even more, quicker so as not to be tainted further.

Tywin stopped trying - talking to her, reaching for her, offering her what pathetic comfort a man like him could. And when she swung around, turning her back to him, he did not stop her.

No one stopped her.

It was like she was, yet again, some plaything in these horrible games these horrible people delighted in. They all knew her secret before she did.

And so, she ran.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He saw her shoulders tense at the sound of him entering the part of the godswood she had sought refuge in, but his gait was as stunted as his body and he took comfort in knowing she would soon recognize her company.

Tyrion had envied her initially and was, perhaps, jealous of Sansa's relationship with his sire. It seemed to reaffirm the unfairness of his own life when the daughter of a traitor, the slough of the King, was better received and more trusted in his father's circle than flesh and blood.

However, when he witnessed Lord Tywin's annoyance with her as they were sat at a meal attended by family in the first few days of their marriage, it allowed assumption to swing to assertion in that she was no more an object of affection as she was a pet to train. Yet the moment Tyrion made the effort to talk to her, to reallytalk to her, he knew she was no mere pet. Not in the slightest.

Sansa was blank parchment vying for ink.

The next instance he played audience to his father publicly inflicting impatience on his new wife, he ignored the bright noise of Lord Tywin and paid particular attention to the undertones of Lady Sansa. She was patience; the epitome of sufferance in an onslaught of intolerance. In that same moment his jealousy turned to admiration, and Tyrion knew this girl would be one to ally himself with.

Over the months though, the focus of his involvement with Lady Sansa turned from one of leverage and advantage over his father to one of honest friendship. He found that his father's wife had the uncanny trait to enchant. But it was more than the simple charm possessed by most women, it was the ability to draw fascination from even the most unlikely of places. Though, what separated Sansa from everyone else was that she had no idea of - or want to misuse - her gift. Which, in and of itself was _bloody charming_.

And he knew, after more than a year of marriage - _within those first months of her marriage, if he were to be honest with himself_ \- that his omnipotent father was just as much smitten with his wife's charm as anyone else. Tyrion could see the way his father looked at Sansa. The brief glimpses of longing and appreciation. Looks that would be dismissed or misinterpreted by anyone else.

The way Lord Tywin sometimes looked at Lady Sansa was what Tyrion often dreamt was the way his father looked at his own mother, once. And for foolish instances he would willingly carry the guilt and shame his father heaped upon him for taking that away. But those moments were fleeting, and his like of Lady Sansa could not be tarnished.

His attention once again settled on the form he was drawing nearer to.

Even though he readied as he thought best, bringing extra kerchiefs in preparation for tears and woe, he approached this young woman, _his father's little wife_ , with a caution reserved for battle with the unknown. As he got closer to her he could see that she was kneeling, her back in flawless posture as always, her head slightly bent, and she was looking at her hands. More precisely, a letter clutched in her fingers.

She did not speak or even acknowledge his advance, her gaze kept downward, deep in thought.

As he slowed to a stop by her side and carefully fell into a seated position beside her on the mossy ground, Tyrion could see clearly she was not crying. In fact, her face looked as though she had yet to shed _any_ tears, and in considering her further, Tyrion could not decide if he was feeling wonderment or dread.

He spoke gently.

"Mother."

Sansa's features smoothed slightly, but she did not look at him.

"Son," she answered.

What was once a contentious name Tyrion used to rouse whatever reaction he could out of his sire's bride had become a term of endearment. More so when Sansa developed her own. It was a greeting, a plan to meet and talk, a connection. Something known and used privately between them. Depending on the inflection used, those two words could speak an entire conversation. Mostly though it spoke of the ridiculousness of it all, the understanding of it all, and of their shared defiance. The latter being something Tyrion was more than happy to instruct Sansa on how to revel in.

They sat silently together for what felt like hours taking in the calm of their surroundings, the quiet comfort of each other's presence.

In truth, Tyrion needed time to build his courage.

"I..."

He aborted his attempt at empathy. It was not what she wanted or needed. Suddenly he, the verbal tactician, was at a loss for words entirely.

She answered his fumble in a soft and tired tone, "Please don't say you're sorry."

"I won't," he sighed. "But it doesn't change the fact that I _am_."

There was a small gap in their conversation, enough to hear the birds in the canopy chattering amongst themselves. Sansa looked down at the loam, blinked a few times and offered a tiny smirk.

"It would imply you carry fault," she said, as smugly as her mood could afford.

Tyrion looked sidelong at the girl and spoke with a smile of his own in his voice, "And for you to evensay that means you are being influenced entirely too much by _him_."

Sansa lost her smirk then and whatever pitiful amount of happiness she showed only moments before.

"I am nothing like _him_ ," she seethed. Her tone was built somewhere between terrified child and grief stricken. _"_ He murdered them."

Tyrion sat contemplating her words for quite a while before deciding what she needed to hear, what he needed to say.

"You're half right." He employed a somber tone and was completely confident Sansa would connect his reply with her statement, regardless of the amount of time that had passed.

She looked at him, turning her head only slightly toward her _son_.

He looked at her in return and continued, "Is that what you believe? That he murdered them?"

Tyrion watched her breathe deeply in preparation for honesty, doubly allowing her to take her time in answering.

"No." She let out a long, tired exhale. "That's not what I believe." Her voice cracked into the sadness that had been expected in her to begin with. "But he didn't save them either."

He could see her fists clench and her body tense again. The paper in her hand crackled under the stress and pressure of her fingers, and he couldn't help but make the ominous comparison to the young lady holding it.

"Did you really expect him to?" Tyrion asked.

It was an awful question regardless of the softness in which it was presented. Not in that it was asked, but because it had to be.

 _Yes!_ , her mind shrieked at her. _Yes! That's what husbands do! That's what men do for their wives! ...That's what my father would have done for my mother! That's what marriage is supposed to mean! Love-_

"No."

The finality in her voice made Tyrion cringe.

Sansa did accomplish something astounding though. Something Cersei cursed her openly for, something Kevan admired her openly for, and something he momentarily thought was some grand mystery until he remembered _the look_ , and who exactly it was pertaining to, and took back any amazement he had spared. But in the end it did not mean her feat was meaningless or any less astounding.

"You changed his mind, Sansa. _You_ altered the path of the Great Lion of Casterly Rock." He rested his hand on her forearm. "No one since my mother has been able to sway the man. But youdid."

Sansa turned her head minutely, just enough to catch his eye. Her voice was flat, and she said, "They're still dead. I changed nothing."

Tyrion squeezed her arm to gain her attention wholly.

"You're wrong and you know it." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Tell me, my lady, what were the results of your actions?"

She looked at him half annoyed, half considering his query internally.

"Removing the Crown from the plot at the Twins." Her voice was tired again, she did not care about useless information.

Tyrion took a deep breath, smiling thoughtfully at her. At the same time, he made to stand, awkwardly using her forearm as leverage. He had never been graceful when it came to the more rudimentary mechanics of anatomy.

"Yes, now." He was still grunting as he was straightening. " _Who_ are you?"

She did not understand his game. Beyond that, she did not want to play. "Your _mother,_ " she said in agitation.

Tyrion narrowed his eyes again and, now that he was of height with the kneeling girl, he reached out and flicked a finger against her forehead. The gesture, albeit a surprise, was one of annoyance and one that told her she was thinking lazily. He leaned in, almost nose-to-no-nose, and measured each word, " _Who are you?_ "

Sansa inhaled deeply, speaking at a whisper on the exhale, "Lady Lannister, wife of Tywin Lannister."

Tyrion stood up straight and smiled kindly before he nodded and went to leave. As he moved to work his stiff joints, he spoke again.

"Yes, Lady _Lannister_ , and since the Crown has no ties to this abhorrent viciousness-" He turned to look at his friend then, and spoke in voice of sincere authority, "-it seems you have quite a debt to pay."

With that, Tyrion turned fully and made his way out of the godswood.

Sansa watched him leave then looked down at the parchment in her hand. She felt her body go hot. It made her queasy, wave after wave of heat cascading from the top of her head, downward. She was being showered in the prospect of vengeance, tasting blood in her mouth and feeling flesh give way under her fingers. She was vibrating in it.

But the revenge she wanted was unattainable. To be able to swing the blade herself, and by her own hand administer the justice that was desperately needed... She was not that person, and Sansa knew that well enough. However, what she was more than capable of was thought and process. And so, instead of focusing on what she wanted to do, she calculated what she _could_ do.

In the frightening details of her considerations she found answer after answer and, in turn, she found a new blackness that smothered and numbed the hurt inside her.

It was as she basked in the freedom from her heartache, embraced the cool detachment that ended her torment, that she happened to glance at the parchment again.

 _Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, Hand of the King..._

What she read was the title of a man who was feared. A man who was passionately dispassionate. A ruthless man who approached life with cold kind of apathy.

 _I am nothing like him,_ her mind said. At the same time, the wind picked up and swirled about the godswood. A cool breeze to douse the heat of vengeance. She accepted then that she was not thatperson, a soul akin to her husband, and set about fighting the blackness back into the shadows. Sansa welcomed the hurt again and realized that it was the ache that made her feel alive and that she had to live for those who were lost. That she had to persevere for those who had been sacrificed so mercilessly.

She hated the distress in her heart, but the possibility of becoming like the man who married her was more than enough to sustain the emotional wounds and concede that _those_ scars would always serve as reminders, but never define her.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa made her way slowly to their apartments in the later hours of the afternoon.

Every step she took felt wooden, and matched the way she felt inside.

When she walked through the doors of the sitting room, she could see Tywin in his place behind their desk and Lyol pouring wine. The scene was nothing unusual, save the hour in which it was taking place - Tywin not normally returning until supper. She considered whether he was waiting for her, for her benefit, then realized it did not matter. She did not care about his motive or the fact that he was there at all.

He lifted his eyes to her as if she were a thing to study, his face impassive and stern, and she was taken in a wave of absurdity - of him, of her, of _everything_ \- and it snapped every scrap of wood inside her.

She was broken.

 _...Robb Stark, dead..._

 _...Catelyn Stark, dead..._

All the grief and tears she thought had been orphaned and lost since reading those atrocious words had only been dammed behind now collapsed walls. The pent up emotion was flooding her, overwhelming every corner of her.

He watched her shatter in front of his eyes and was utterly powerless to stop it, or to ease it, or to do anything but bear witness to it. It was because of that he felt part of himself crumble with her.

Her world bent and she felt herself falling. She had been looking at her husband when the plummet began and could see him rising to his feet as she was sinking beneath him... But everything was slow and warping.

Tywin looked like he was running, yet his speed was nothing like a man set to rush. She realized then that her descent was equally listless. Her vision angled down as her knees came to a painful halt and she surmised she had finally hit the floor. No sooner had she accepted the jarring fall than she was rising up again. A warm hand was at the back of her knees and another one was hooked around her back, pressing her against a warmth that smelled familiar and safe.

Safe.

 _...Robb Stark, dead..._

 _...Catelyn Stark, dead..._

She was _safe_ and her family were dead. _All of them_.

They left her all alone in a place that only wanted to see her subjected to pain and suffering and now she had _nothing_ outside of it.

Tywin felt hands dig into his clothing where he cradled her to his chest. Her grip was impossibly tight like she was anchoring him, or herself, against any possibility of vanishing. He was mere strides from their bedchamber when she pulled even harder into him and began to wail. The roar of sorrow was made even more heartbreaking by the fact that it came from _this_ girl. _His_ girl. _His wife_.

He could feel each sob build and shiver through her. Her keening wracked her with such a physical force, Tywin had to hold on harder than he intended just to ensure she wouldn't quake out of his grasp. But _Gods_ , it was the sound she made. It punched him in the chest every time it rocked and shuddered out of her. It was pure mourning, and he knew exactly what kind of misery that was. Just as he knew that there wasn't a _fucking thing_ he could do for her, and _that_ stabbed him with its own horrible agony.

Sansa was coughing and choking on waves and torrents of tears and mucus; nothing was in her control. Her muscles tensed and cramped and all she could do was bewail her grief into the space around her. The arms that carried her set her on something soft - her bed she supposed - but the excruciating sadness would not allow her to confirm anything except loss.

She heard bits and pieces of Tywin's voice from somewhere faraway summoning a maester, then Kevan, then her sobs grew larger again and were in the way. After a few moments she felt large warm circles being rubbed into her back. Her grief had made her muscles taut. So much so even where her gown touched, it hurt. Every soft contact felt as though it were made of steel and was crashing into her.

All the pain mingled together and she simply curled into herself and kept crying.

Sansa felt something brushing her face - a hand, a cloth, she couldn't tell - then heard her name, but it sounded like everything was underwater. There was a coolness at the back of her neck and her name was still floating calmly in front of her. It took everything she could scrape together inside her just to open her eyes.

When her vision cleared, Tywin came into focus.

They were in their bedchamber and they were alone - a small mercy in a riot of tragedy.

He was holding the back of her neck, propping her up, bringing a cup to her mouth.

 _...Robb Stark, dead..._

 _...Catelyn Stark, dead..._

She pursed her lips and tried to back away from it.

Tywin knew exactly where her thoughts were leading her. He let go of her and stepped back.

"It's not poison, Sansa," he said, firm and calm. "It is a draught to help you sleep."

His voice seemed impossibly kind, and it made her even more suspicious. Her body acted on its own and scurried further across the bed. Sansa's breathing started to falter and her tears started again, she crumpled into a heap and wept anew.

This time there was an element of fear in the look on her face, and Tywin forced himself past the anger her childishness sparked in him and came to the only conclusion presented.

She barely noticed him leave, though in the hiccoughs of her sadness she could hear talking through the open door. She recognized Ser Kevan and Tywin, there was also another man but she could not place his voice before her mind rounded back on her grief.

When Tywin returned, Sansa was where he had left her, only now she was whimpering.

His wife was no longer the strong young woman he had watched bloom, she was once again the terrified girl - a captive this time to sorrow, now pining for her mother. But hers was such a sad piteous voice it pulled and tugged at him violently. He had to make a conscious effort to breath normally.

Tywin had been holding a carafe and two cups, which he set down on the small table within the room. Sansa watched every move he made, her eyes darting from behind her tears; her stuttered breathing slowed down as she now had something else to occupy her attention.

He undid the fastenings on his doublet then walked to the side of the bed that she was closer to and held out his arm. At length he shook his hand then spoke softly.

"I cannot remove it without help."

Sansa was still sniffling, rather bewildered, but nevertheless leaned over and complied. Taking hold of the cuff of his sleeve while he pulled his arm out, she repeated the action with the other. Her husband stripped completely and changed into a bedgown.

Again he approached where she was curled up. "Come here Sansa." A wave of his fingers emphasized his request.

She still held her suspicion, but thought tiredly that he could easily rid the world of the last Stark _without_ dressing for bed. Crawling closer, he caught her midway and lifted her to her knees in front of him. His jaw was working but she was in no mood, so she rested her forehead against his chest - the air still hitching as she breathed - and waited for him to decide what he wanted.

She did not wait long.

Tywin moved his fingers ably to loosen the lacing of the restrictive bodice of her gown, leaned down and wrapped his arms around her waist. Picking her up then setting her on her feet, he continued to remove her dress.

Sansa was in too much pain on the inside to concern herself with what happened on the outside. She considered that perhaps he wanted to take his rights as a husband, and found she did not care. Instead, she watched through wet eyes as he covered her eventual nakedness with her own bedgown, and before she could think of anything else, Tywin moved away from her toward the small table. There she observed him pour liquid into each cup before picking them both up and walking back to her.

He drank the entire contents of one cup and held out the other.

"It is _not_ poison."

She picked up the edge of annoyance in his voice.

His wife took the offered drink and consumed it all. Tywin didn't know whether he felt foolish in that he had to resort to such measures, or uneasy in that she trusted such a display of foolishness.

No matter.

The old lion pulled back the bed coverings and silently implored his wife to take the invitation.

After she had climbed in and curled into herself facing away from him, Tywin retrieved the damp cloth before joining her. He moved closer to Sansa, then felt a pang of hesitation. He had not considered what he would do if she rejected his effort to comfort her.

 _Sleep_ , his mind concluded dryly.

Cautiously, he slid his arm under her head and curled the rest of him against her back.

She felt him move in close to her, though she was in no state to even consider a fight - not that she wanted to fight anyway. There _was_ comfort in him, in his presence, and at least it was contrasting the hurt.

Sansa could feel Tywin's fingers moving her hair to the side - pulling a little too hard sometimes and plucking strands, her body barely acknowledged it. Though the instant he placed the cold damp cloth at the back of her neck again, she sighed at the relief. It extinguished the heat that pooled in her head from crying.

His arm came to rest around her middle.

"How did you know to do that?" She did not have to see his face to know he was frowning at her unclear question. "The cloth," she clarified. Her voice was graveled, but also that of a small child, speaking more into the bed linen than anything. She just did not have the want or power for more.

His muscles stiffen where he was leaning against her. "My wi-" He shifted slightly and tried again. "My first wife-"

"Lady Joanna," Sansa muttered absently.

"Yes, Lady Joanna." Tywin cleared his throat a little before speaking further. "Shortly after we were married, her father died. The abruptness of his death caused her to mourn terribly."

"I wasn't allowed to mourn the death of my father."

Her statement was not swung as a weapon. Even in her sad-child voice he knew it was simply a matter of fact.

He held her a little tighter before speaking.

"The deaths you hear about are the ones that fade easier. They never go away entirely, but time interrupts and creates gaps between the grief at a faster pace."

Tywin paused for a moment and Sansa could feel his breath quicken.

"But when you are there to witness the death of someone you..." His throat involuntarily clenched. "Care for." There was a moment of recovery. "It stays with you as fresh and dreadful as if it were _that_ day, for the rest of your days... Perhaps there is a reason the Gods choose to brand those events at the front of the mind..."

She knew at the end Tywin was no longer talking directly to her. Sansa was no stranger to that particular torment. They shared a bed, and there was nothing sacred between people when sleep removed command of one's mind. There just wasn't. Her father haunted her dreams as much as Lady Joanna haunted his, but the pain of those memories were now halved.

She reached out and put her hand in his where it lay resting just past her head. Her fingers wriggled into their place between his.

Tywin would hold her hand like that when he could sense her stress - publicly or privately - and it was an action that always lent itself to calm. When he curled his fingers over, the effect was immediate. Perhaps for each of them.

She heard his breath let out behind her, then felt his mouth rest on the back of her head. He was doing no more than breathing her scent and nuzzling his lips and nose into her hair, creating a peaceful lull.

"Sleep, love."

He sounded as though he were already dreaming and, like their ghosts, his words were unfiltered and uncontrolled.

With that, her mind was able to sidestep the dolor that was threatening, able to follow a path of comfort until she found her own dreams.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The next time her eyes opened, Sansa found herself staring at dancing shadows cast on the walls by the fire in the hearth.

She was still curled up on her side, but her body ached and her head beat in a shallow but persistent thud, and she could tell that her husband was no longer curled up with her. She could not feel him at all.

The cold cloth Tywin placed on the back of her neck earlier was now tepid, but still served to dull the thump inside her skull. Her eyes were sore, her throat was raw, the place behind her cheeks burned and hurt. Though as her mind focused on Robb and her mother, the only thing she could offer were the thick tears that rolled down her face and the heavy air she pushed out of her lungs.

Sansa then felt warm knuckles rub circles into the rise of her hip.

There was nothing left in her to even acknowledge Tywin, his touch, or _anything_.

Her mind was just so tired.

Her body was just so cold.

The fire would have heated the room sufficiently, but her bones were icy. It came from within, like a damp cold that had seeped into her marrow.

She turned over slowly. The first thing she noticed was that Tywin was further away than his touch suggested. He was laying on his back with the arm furthest from her tucked behind his head. She also noted that the fire illuminated the top ridge of his profile in a way that made him look as though he were built of flames.

He looked warm.

When she moved again he turned his head toward her. Not saying a word, he simply watched until she was close enough to discern what she wanted, then lifted his arm in order to give it to her. Sansa curled herself into the side of her husband, facing him, her knees tucked up against his side, the arm under her and most of her torso laid on his belly. She felt his large hand come to rest on the edge of her hip and lower back.

He _was_ warm, and it was enough to begin to settle her agitation, but it wasn't enough to ebb the fathomless tears that were still streaming down her face.

Tywin was looking at her; there was no emotion easily read on him. Her blurry eyes were not of any assistance either, but she could _feel_ him. His fingers pressed a light rhythm into her back as his thumb traced an invisible pattern into her hip.

Sansa laid her head down on the softness of his bedgown and the warmth of him underneath it and tentatively closed her eyes.

"You're glad of it, aren't you?"

Her question came in the form of a corroded voice.

Tywin was teetering on the cusp of sleep himself when her words drew him back. His eyes struggled open, focusing on the girl that was partially draped over him, that had again raised her head and was looking up at him through red, swollen eyes. He blinked slow as he considered his words, tightened his fingers but a fraction where they rested on her hip. Tywin would not lie to her, but neither would he add to her torment. Thus he purposefully bit back any annoyance that may have gathered in regard her vague question.

"If you are asking me if I wanted your brother dead..." The momentary gap was in order to gauge her willingness for the truth. "Yes, you know that I did."

Other than taking a deeper breath and her tears still falling, Sansa displayed no outward signs of struggle.

"If you are asking if your brother's death will mean quicker gain and profit... Yes, it will."

Where her hand was resting idly on his stomach, he could feel her fingers curl, biting through the fabric into skin. Lord Tywin took a slow breath in, moved his hand from behind his head to rest on the crown of her hair. He began stroking his thumb over and through the softness there.

"If you are asking if your brother's death makes me _happy..._ " Frowning a tiny amount, his brows pulled down lower and he looked at her with the serious eyes she knew to mean that he was troubled. " _No_ , it does not."

It was barely a whisper, sounding more like a lullaby.

Sansa laid her head down again and tried to concentrate on the rhythm of her husband's breathing, the strokes of his fingers in her hair.

In the end, it was only after the drain and effort of her next wave of sorrow that she was able to find sleep.

To find some peace.

...

..

.


	11. Red IV

**This chapter contains descriptions of and allusions to physical and sexual assault as well as torture and execution. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.**

...

..

.

A little over four moons had passed since the Red Wedding occurred.

 _The Red Wedding._ It was a foul title for a foul event, and one that made Sansa's blood run cold every time she heard it. Tywin never mentioned it to her, he would talk about it only if she presented the conversation, otherwise taking noticeable pains to have it removed from their day-to-day life. He had told her she was to avoid court - and Joffrey, without exception - and the few times the King had summoned her, or them, for whatever reason, Tywin put an end to it promptly. But that was over four moons past and she was noticing disparaging looks and stares when she would walk about the castle or the grounds.

Not that she particularly cared about what people thought of her, bias and contempt were nothing new, although now her growing concern centered on what, and how, those same people viewed her husband. More so, how they viewed him in relation to her; she didn't want to be a weakness, _his_ weakness, present or considered. So she made the effort and attended court.

As expected, it took no more than a few minutes for Joffrey to notice her arrival, and immediately for the business of the realm to be steered to that of the dead wolf-king of the sinister North, and his army of skin-changers.

Tywin was sat to the side of the King, his face calm and his eyes furious. She could tell by his angled posture that his fury was aimed well away from her.

For every badly-veiled taunt that failed to find a foothold in her humiliation or embarrassment, Joffrey became angrier. It was when his face was reddened from screaming and he was all but spitting his words directly at her, that he called her forward by name.

"Lady Sansa," his pitch broke, causing him to squeak her title out loudly.

No one in attendance dared to even snicker.

Lady Sansa approached at a calm pace and with a demeanour that made her nothing less than glorious; she came to a stop at a position in front of the dais that had seen more than its share of her blood, curtsied perfectly, and spoke with the appropriate reverence.

"Your Grace."

Joffrey was visibly shaking in his anger.

"And what do _you_ think of the slaughter of your brother and the rest of the northern criminals?"

Her voice was built of a familiar cadence and familiar words, it was a mask she donned as though it were an old friend, and said, "My brother was a traitor, Your Grace. He died as he deserved."

The King was not finished. Not even close.

"My grandfather thinks I shouldn't bring you his traitor head. Would you like that? To see another Stark? It would be a family gathering - you and the remains of your brother - all about as useful as Starks normally are."

He laughed at her, cruel and degrading.

She didn't budge; she didn't cry or even bristle at his words. It was as if she were made of metal.

"I am a Lannister, Your Grace," she demurred gently. "By law and in the eyes of the Gods."

Sansa smiled then, genuine and sweet. A smile fit for a queen. In the same heartbeat, she watched Tywin blink slowly, emphasizing the close more than the open - a gesture that reminded her of the Hound when he would pinch her to prevent her from saying something stupid, from being punished further.

Her insides went cold, her outside showed no signs of distress.

The King stood in a graceless scramble, making his way down the grand steps and stopping right in front of her.

His voice was calm, nonchalant even. "You should bleed gold then, should you not?"

Joffrey did not give her time to even consider an answer before sneering his whim into the deathly quiet room. "Ser Loras, Ser Osmund, secure my _grandmother_."

The King flung his command then stepped back a pace. Without hesitation the two summoned Kingsguard marched their approach, each gripping one of Sansa's arms.

She let it happen, she did not fight, she knew this part as though it were a game from her childhood. However, her exceedingly calm disposition was new, and it was _that_ which further enraged the King.

There was no noise in the great chamber, no whispered voices aflutter with gossip or anticipation of carnage. The ominous quiet was palpable.

Joffrey stepped in closer to Sansa and spoke loud enough for this words to travel to every corner of the room. "If I remove your head, not only will it prove you are not a Lannister, but I will have carried on the tradition of my grandfather and ended the line of a troublesome house." He looked around, pleased as the courtiers nervously muttered their approval.

She took the opportunity and looked up at the dias. Tywin was now standing - everyone was now standing, she noted - he was outwardly furious in that he was flexing his right hand. She noticed the subtle sway in this right arm, the one that had been practiced for decades, the one that would unleash his sword.

For a moment she wondered exactly who he would choose, but thought, in the very same moment, that it didn't matter. Either way she would be dead.

Sansa returned her focus to the sad, bitter boy standing in front of her.

"What do you think of that, _grandmother_?" he sneered. "Would you care to die for the sake of the rest of us knowing?"

Her words were again calm, and again spoken without hesitation. "It is not my place to question the will of the realm, My King."

She could feel the hate cascading off him.

"Very well," he hissed.

No sooner had the words left his mouth, there was a cacophony of steel being bared. Using her peripheral, Sansa could see that Tywin had his sword drawn and was at the midpoint of stairs on the dais, but was held at bay by three Kingsguard. He was emotionless and it seemed to make him fiercer. She could also discern that every Gold Cloak and Lannister soldier had pulled their blades as well.

 _This will be a bloodbath_ , she thought.

She brought her eyes back to the green set seething in front of her. Sansa was no longer fragile, and there was nothing King Joffrey could do to her physically or emotionally that would see her break. Tywin may have been a reprieve at the beginning, by way of their marriage, but at the end of the day the Great Lion of Lannister was only but a subject to the King, and it was Sansa's own resolve that consolidated her will and inner strength. The King had nothing left to remove or threaten her with; nothing she would _allow_ him to have. Her life was her own and if the King chose to take thataway she knew, looking again at her husband, that she would be avenged - not by the family she once had, but by the one she had worked hard to create from nothing.

Joffrey was bested, and he knew it, and he utterly despised her for it.

"You will see your traitor brother again, but it will be in thislife, not the next."

The King flicked his hand at the two knights that held her, and she was just as quickly let go.

Sansa dropped her eyes to the toes her Joffrey's boots and extended the courtesy that was expected when spared by a king.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Her life may have been spared but her attendance certainly hadn't been dismissed, and as she turned to take her place amongst the crowd in the room she looked over to see Tywin. He was still standing on the steps, his sword replaced at his hip, and was watching her carefully under a heavy stare.

His wife smiled at him. It was nothing smug or triumphant, he could see that clearly. She was humble and her smile was meant to speak to him alone, meant to assure him she was alright. He gave a curt nod in return and watched until she found a place in the audience - one of prominence as was expected of the Hand's wife.

At the first break in proceedings Tywin walked directly to his lady wife and offered his arm. He did not speak a word, he simply led her from court and down the hall to the outer gardens. Before they reached the massive archway that would usher them outside, Tywin turned abruptly and opened a narrow door. The room inside was small, it had tools and implements she supposed were for tending the greenery just without.

Tywin turned her by the shoulders in order to face him, barely brushing his palms down her arms where she had been so recently held firm.

"Are you injured?" His tone was as serious as his look.

Sansa answered gently, truthfully, "I am bruised, my lord, but I am uninjured."

His wife wore her hair up and he could not stop himself from placing his fingers around the base of her skull and pulling her toward him. He rested his lips on her hairline and spoke in his usual serious tone, yet his statement rung with an undertone of something like bewilderment.

"You are a beautiful fool," he breathed.

Sansa smiled to herself at his backhanded sentimentality, but at the same time her proximity allowed her to feel his heartbeat. It thumped rapidly, completely belying his exterior. Pulling away from him slightly, looking up as she did so, she could see Tywin's face - his mask was stern, but his eyes held something else entirely.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As they met for supper there was no mention of what happened earlier that day in court. Such was their way; if there was no immediate need or consequence, Tywin had no interest.

They had barely begun their meal before it was interrupted by the announcement of a messenger. Sansa looked to her husband, seeing if he would dismiss her for privacy, or himself leave for the same reason. He did neither as he waved the young man in.

The messenger, scruffy in face and clothing from time on the road and evidence that he had made no stop or effort for his own comfort prior to seeking audience with his leige, bowed before them.

"My lord," the young man began. "The Freys have advanced, but seem more disorganized without the Bolton forces."

The information was precise and matter of fact, exactly what Lord Tywin expected.

"Has there been any progress made aside from the idiot family understanding how to walk forward and close a gap?" Tywin said it without a trace of humour.

The young soldier paused then, quickly glanced at Sansa, and cleared his throat. "They have taken to parading Lord Edmure to the gallows every day with the threat of execution, my lord."

Tywin didn't look at her directly, but could see clearly she remained unmoved by the information, her only tell was the clench of her jaw, but even that was delicate. He focused on the young man again.

"And what of the Blackfish?"

"He refuses to treat, my lord. He is holding with limited armament, men, and with those who successfully fled the Red We-" The young man stopped completely, looked at his lady for but a heartbeat, then back to his lord.

Again Tywin observed his wife's strength.

The messenger was given his leave with a short wave of his lord's hand.

Tywin waited for it... and wasn't disappointed when Sansa spoke her question.

"Are Lannister forces aiding the Freys in their siege of Riverrun, my lord?"

Her tone was cool, there was no desperation or easily identifiable panic. He looked at her for only a moment, then opened a missive that was sitting to the side, and clipped, "No."

Again, Tywin waited.

Sansa thought for a moment, knowing her husband would hardly entertain question after question. She would have to ensure their significance.

"My lord, _why_ are Lannister forces - and I assume they are a formidable number - observing the siege of Riverrun?"

He smirked, that was the question he wanted from her.

"War leads to opportunity, my lady, and if the Freys manage to create one that will allow me to take Riverrun, I will."

"But why are Lannister forces at Riverrun to begin with?" She was genuinely curious.

"When I removed my support, and the support of the Crown, I had expected the Freys to regroup with the North." He angled his head slightly. "And between it and the Twins, Riverrun was the better choice, both strategically and for gain. There is less chance of having to strike from a defensive position or being besieged, which, as a whole, is superior." He took a drink and narrowed his eyes - not necessarily at her, more at his own thoughts. "But there is no accounting for the bitter pettiness of some men. It leads to unpredictability."

Sansa raised her eyebrows slightly at Tywin's assessment of Lord Frey, and wondered if he could read her silent accusation toward his hypocritical judgment. The way he paused and further narrowed his eyes told her that he did, but he did not address it.

"The northern position was doomed regardless, the Freys simply enabled a sooner fruition."

Tywin looked down after that, now uninterested in their conversation, reading the parchment opened on the table beside him, and Sansa could not understand why her husband was so suddenly dismissive.

"The North will regroup and follow any heir Robb may have, my lord. His queen lives." It wasn't said to incite, it was a fact.

However, Tywin brushed her off, never raising his eyes and speaking as he would to an annoyance seeking his favour. "Your brother did not sire an heir."

Again, she did not know why he was being dismissive.

"You don't know that," she said, exasperated. "You didn't knowhe would have died, you don't knowif his queen isn't with child." Sansa felt her patience crumble away completely. "Don't say that you do."

He flicked his eyes at her then.

Sansa set her cutlery down and looked at Tywin directly. She spoke recklessly, not out of anger but out of exhaustion. "You are a great man, my lord, but that does _not_ make you a God."

Her annoyance had found a voice, and she could not take it back. She watched her husband set down his own cutlery, and for a moment she thought he would stand and leave. Instead he remained seated and looked at her with a smugness that yanked her back what felt like decades. It was the same look Joffrey would give her as she was being struck and punished.

Her appetite was gone and her muscles were covertly coiling.

Lord Tywin made no move to harm her physically, but he spoke in a tone that would damage.

"Sansa, your brother would have died regardless. More than likely by mydoing. He was young and incredibly stupid." He looked at her pointedly to ensure he had her attention, and continued, "I will admit he had moments of luck and brilliance on the battlefield, but how much of that was his own ingenuity and how much was he led by the men who made him their king?"

Her response was a quiet, beaten, "My lord, you don't know-"

She was not listening. His wife wasn't even trying to comprehend, and Tywin was at the end of his patience. He slammed his fist down on the heavy wooden table with such a force he caused the jump and fall of food and service-ware alike. He stood then, leaning over to his wife, his eyes were livid and his words were fired like arrows.

"He wed a girl from the _Westerlands_." He was almost frothing. "Who do you think that girl's parents served - their _liege lord_ or a false northern king who couldn't keep his cock out of their daughter?"

She hated this version of him, and _this_ man, she was sure, hated her too.

" _Y-You_. My lord, _you_." She just wanted it to be over.

Tywin took a deep breath, reeling himself in from the edge.

"That is how I know your brother will have no heir," he said in his usual serious tone. "That is how I know he was at an end, whether he realized it or not."

Her husband turned to leave then, his meal and work abandoned. Sansa watched, mouth slacked at the knowledge he shared, as Tywin stopped when he reach the door and growled to her without turning around.

"Your mother lives." He pushed the door open. "I have secured her from the Freys." He began walking away, his voice fading. "She will be here in a fortnight." And he was gone.

Sansa looked at her hands where they were resting on the table. They were shaking.

She looked at the parchment haphazardly left near her husband's plate. It laid still as death.

 _Mother_.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

True to her husband's word, her mother took a fortnight to finally arrive in King's Landing. Lady Catelyn reached the Red Keep before the sun was up, and was brought in without any ceremony at all. She was given accommodation and help as befitting her station, and as far as the soldiers that accompanied her from the Twins were aware, she had yet to speak a word.

When Tywin woke he found that Sansa was awake too. Something she was never apt to do unless previously planned. At some point in the night she had curled and hugged herself around his closest arm, and he could feel her shivering - like she would if she were fevered. He felt a pang of panic and turned toward his wife as much as their position allowed, raised a hand, ran it over her forehead, and continued with his fingers through her hair. Her skin wasn't burning, she wasn't damp in sweat, but her muscles were working in waves of tiny spasms.

Tywin frowned and Sansa could see it on him clearly, even in the dim morning light of their bed chamber.

"It has been so long..."

She said it into his arm more than at him, but he heard her and he knew what she was referring too. Tywin had been woken at an early hour to be told of Lady Catelyn's arrival, and thought best to allow both her and his wife time to rest. But now that she was awake, he knew Sansa would make their re-connection her only priority.

"She will always be your mother, Sansa, regardless of the time between you."

The corner of his mouth twitched when she nodded into his sleeve. In any other setting Tywin would loathe and admonish the sort of childishness his wife was displaying, but the small doses she exhibited privately only added to her appeal.

"If you care to postpone your meeting until later this morning, I will accompany you."

When she politely declined his offer, she had no idea how proud he was of her.

Tywin moved and carefully disentangled himself, rose fully and summoned for both of them to be attended this morning.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa approached the room that held her mother with equal parts hesitation and excitement. Tywin had told her she would be wise not to expect the same woman she had left in Winterfell - that war changes everyone.

Sansa knew this fact intimately.

He had also been informed that her mother was suffering injury, but had yet to see or speak to her himself and couldn't prepare her for what kind of wounds she may have. It didn't matter. Sansa would work to make her mother well, regardless of her injury. The only thing that mattered was that she was alive and _here_.

When she arrived at the door, one of the two Lannister guards immediately stepped aside as the other opened the door and escorted her inside.

The small sitting room was empty, save for the maid tending the fire. Sansa inquired of the maid as to the whereabouts of her mother before politely dismissing her.

The guard remained at her side as they entered the attached bedchamber.

The room was bright enough, and would only get brighter throughout the day - Sansa smiled at that small comfort. Her mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, stock still and silent. Sansa could see that she was awake. She could also see, quite clearly, the terrible gashes and lesions running down her mother's face and neck. Sansa inhaled quickly, loudly, but it did not seem to disturb her mother's concentration. The other change in the physical appearance of Lady Catelyn was that her Tully hair, the beautiful auburn she shared with her daughter, was now streaked in brittle swatches of white. There was no pattern or distinguished flow to the white, it simply appeared in patches.

 _Oh mother, what have they done to you?_ Sansa's mind was reeling in the despair her body refused to cry out.

Continuing to observe, Sansa quickly noticed that her mother's wrists had been bound. What made it worse was that she had been bathed and clothed in the one of the gowns she had personally selected, then had her bindings reapplied. Her mother was no longer a prisoner, no longer in the hands of the enemy. She was with family and, however unconventional the circumstance may be, they were together and that's all that mattered.

"Why is she bound, ser?" Sansa was edging on anger. "Untie her at once, she'll not harm me."

The guard looked at her rather sheepishly and hesitated before answering at a whisper, "My lady, your mother is restrained for her _own_ safety."

Sansa frowned at the man, her frustration now plainly read on her face.

The guard continued, he could see that his explanation was insufficient. "The... wounds on her face... My lady, she inflicted those herself. The bloody Freys just let her, but Lord Tywin would never approve of us allowing her to continue... So we tied her and found a healer."

Her mother had not moved a fraction, not even to lay eyes on her daughter. Catelyn just sat there, staring blankly, clean but slightly tousled, and obviously hurting.

"Untie her please." It was said with the kindness she was known for, but it also sounded tired.

The guard did as he was bade and Lady Catelyn still didn't move, didn't look at Sansa. When the man left, Sansa pulled a chair close to where her mother was sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Mother?" She said gently, not wanting to startle or provoke her.

The wounds on her face and neck were gruesome - long, deep gashes - and for her mother to have inflicted them on herself only spoke to the horror she was witness to. Yet the woman before her remained silent, seemingly despondent. However, Sansa was patient if anything. She settled into her own thoughts and waited. Her mother was right in front of her and she would gladly wait for her to find her way back.

"Your blood should have been at my feet, too." Her mother's voice was as shredded as the flesh on her face and neck. "It would have been better that way."

Sansa was surprised by the dreadful words. They had been sitting in silence for hours, but jumped at the opportunity to finally talk to her beloved mother.

"Mother, I-"

But Lady Catelyn barreled over her daughter as though she wasn't in the room, let alone addressing her.

"Bolton. I thought it was Lord Bolton who ended Robb's life, but when they..." Her voice became airy and her words drifted for a moment, almost thoughtfully. "They didn't even have the decency to use a broad sword. Did you know that?"

Lady Catelyn looked directly at her daughter, but her eyes held no acknowledgement. She merely kept talking.

"Raymund Frey, he used a dagger... with a blade no longer than the width of my hand." Her eyes drifted again, looking at her hands. "It took so long, sawing with that tiny blade. He was still bleeding and breathing. He was still gurgling. I screamed for them to stop, but they just held me down and made me watch." Her face was serene, like she was speaking of nothing more than household assignments. "Even when they twisted and twisted, his body was trying to breath. They had to get an axe to finish it. He was quiet after that."

Sansa felt her hands getting clammy. She was aghast and didn't want to hear any of this, but she could not find the command that would make her mouth or legs work.

Her mother looked right at her then, and said, "You've been sullied, you know. By _him_."

Sansa didn't know why, but she felt defensive. She found her words and spoke them softly, respectfully. "I have been treated fairly, mother. Lord Tywin has been kind."

Lady Catelyn smiled, but it looked more like she was in pain.

Sansa tried to gently change the subject, "I wrote you-"

Her mother became vicious at her words. "Yes, letters from the Westerlands addressed to the woman that freed the Kingslayer. _I know_."

Sansa clenched her jaw in hurt and frustration, she didn't know what she meant about Ser Jaime. It was as though her mother had built a curtain wall out of iron and all she had were her bare hands to conquer it.

Again Sansa spoke softly, "You are not a prisoner here, mother. You will never see a cell again, I promise-"

"A _cell_?" Catelyn looked at Sansa as though the young lady had sprouted another head, then sneered, "Is _that_ where you think I've been kept?"

Her mother laughed then and it was nothing like Sansa remembered, nothing of the mother that used to brush her hair at night.

"No," the woman said. "I was quite the prize and claimed as such."

Sansa knew she didn't want to hear any more, tried to make her thoughts become words... "I don't-"

But the woman talked right through her.

"No." Catelyn's eyes were wild. "I still had your brother's blood in my mouth when they cut the clothes from me, lashed me to the end of a table and took their turns. Boltons _and_ Freys." She then had a faraway look with a voice that matched. "I was there for days." There was a twitch in the lower lid of her mother's right eye, subtle and frightening all at once. "I was fed, at least. They delighted, after a sennight, to tell me I had been eating Grey Wind _._ " She closed her eyes, smiled awkwardly, and momentarily sounded like the mother from Sansa's dreams. "Your brother's wolf... You remember him, don't you?"

 _I remember them both_ , her mind wept, but her mouth didn't allow.

Her mother snapped her eyes open then, the sunken orbs were bloodshot and it made the blue radiate a purple. As though she were looking through the hottest part of a fire.

"I begged them to kill me after the first fortnight. Instead, they pissed on me and threatened to kill my brother if I did the deed myself. The only mercy I had was after three moons when the wretched spawn they had forced into me dripped out and most kept their distance."

She looked her daughter in the eye and spoke sweetly, "Then I was _sold_."

Sansa reached out for her, she couldn't help it, she was horrified, but her mother was in pain and she wanted to help her, comfort her, _anything_...

Lady Catelyn wanted nothing of it, she recoiled from her daughter's hands as though they were the same ones that had held her down.

"I- Mother... Please..."

"Do you think you can have me too, _Lannister_? I belong to _no one_!" The woman bellowed at her at the same time her anger contorted and tore the scabs and scars on her face and neck into something even more grotesque. "Do you think the North will want you now? You're no _Stark_! You dishonour them, all of them, all of those who died because of _you_!"

Sansa stood up with a force that toppled her chair. _How did she know?_ She was backing away and talking, trying to make her mother understand, but her voice was no more than a whisper. "I... I have done my duty..."

"To whom?" Catelyn sat up straighter and narrowed her hot, unnatural eyes. "You say you've done your duty, yet Tywin Lannister still breathes. You let that man slither inside you and flaunt his payment besides." The woman was focused on Sansa's necklace as she curled her lip in disgust. "Even a common whore would have the decency to die for the right amount of coin."

Sansa was winded, wounded, as though she were being struck by gauntlets. _Again_.

"His first wife died birthing the abomination he had fucked on her, I can only hope the same for you and yours."

Sansa's steps backward had finally brought her in contact with the wall. She used it to guide her to the door. The scarred woman followed her every move with her burning eyes, and Sansa wanted nothing more than to put as much distance between this repulsive stranger and herself.

At the same moment Sansa knocked to signal the guard, the woman dropped her rancour and became serious. "I don't care what you do to me," she said in a voice like the bitter cold. Then, "I will kill them all."

The door opened and Sansa slipped into the hall with so much momentum her personal guard had to catch her before she tripped and fell. The three men were left staring, blinking blankly at Sansa. The door was thick and the sound could not penetrate, they had no idea what was said beyond it.

Lady Sansa stood straight, gathered her bearings and spoke as she always did: pleasantly and confident. "Please ensure Lady Stark is tended to by the Maester." She brushed her hands down her skirts to straighten them, and continued, "Have her maids ensure that if she is served meat, that it is identifiable."

The request was odd, but the sentries dared not question it or even raise a brow.

Lady Sansa turned then and made her way up to the battlements. The familiar freedom from the cage that had kept her for so long. There _was_ freedom up there, a kind of peace, and with every rounded corner there lived a part of her that expected the drunken terror of the Hound to block her path, and felt a strange kind of disappointment when it didn't happen. However, those were thoughts and expectations from a time before. Before she had a husband; when only her father was dead.

When she still had the dream of seeing the rest of her family.

There were no alternatives now. There was no hope for reunion or reconciliation. Sansa was truly without the family she had been born to, raised amongst, nurtured in, and loved by.

But she was not alone.

No, she was the companion, advisor, lover, and wife of a man who, if she had never been in King's Landing to begin with, would have more than likely been the same man that saw to her death in one fashion or another.

But she was _not_ alone.

Sometimes it was enough. Sometimes it ate through the loneliness. Sometimes it was empowering. Mostly though, she could see the further conclusions, the ones that stemmed from the man but ended where she herself desired.

Tywin was right, war changes everyone. And just as much as the woman she met was no longer her mother, Sansa had come to the crashing realization that she was not longer the daughter Catelyn Tully knew either.

She _was_ a Stark, no amount of raving would remove that part of her, but she was not the girl who left Winterfell.

She was more.

Her most powerful weapon was her heart. She would balk at Tyrion for his telling her so, believing it more of a weakness, but as she looked out over the city that had tried so hard to murder that part of her, she knew he spoke at least some truth. Her heart would never break completely, she was sure, but with enough emotional pain the damage could be crippling - and there always seemed to be a barrage of it.

Sansa knew the relief she wanted, _needed_ , to help with that particular pain, and she would no longer be ashamed of that want.

It was hers to have, she only had to take it.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

His personal solar within their apartments a was smaller than the sitting room, but because it was not openly accessed it offered far more privacy. Tywin had instructed Sansa to meet with him there after her visit with her mother. He wanted to know essential details, he also didn't want to interrogate her when she was still emotionally vulnerable. Privacy was determined the safest environment for her debriefing, and if she didn't seem responsive here he would wait until they were readying for bed.

She found him sitting on the small, heavily cushioned bench inside the room, instead of at the desk. From what she could determine, the fire provided a better light for reading anyway and the roomy expanse of furs and feather pillows looked a more comfortable seat.

When he heard her enter and close the door behind her, Tywin chanced a glance upward and was pleased to see a look of contentment on her face. She wasn't carrying any unnecessary stress as far as he could tell and went back to the missive he was reading.

As she walked to a place beside him, beside the arm of the bench, Tywin asked absently, "I presume your visit was satisfactory?"

He expected an answer, instead he felt her fingers caress his face - twine and fiddle through his side whiskers. He subconsciously let out his breath and leaned into her touch. She knew he liked that, that he was malleable when she gave him that tender attention, and when he turned his head to look at her, his eyes almost bleary, she kept his gaze and rounded to a spot in front of his legs. Once stopped, Sansa leaned into him further and planted her lips over his.

Tywin groaned into her mouth when he felt her fingers curl around to the back of his neck and take hold of him. It was commanding and liberating all at the same time. She had never taken control like that - it was bold and aggressive. Sansa had always been sophisticated and understated in her intimate advances. What she was instigating then was almost hurried, it had an element of desperation. Her approach notwithstanding, his cock was hard, but he supposed that was what she wanted. That she wanted him compliant...

Sansa felt Tywin's hands roam over her, causing her breathing to deepen.

This was what she needed.

One of his hands snaked its way up and over her breasts, up the side of her neck, then down again to the collar of her gown. She could feel him hold her there, like he was looking to control her angle - which was exactly what she wanted, she wanted to be free, she wanted him to take her, pleasure her so she could be lost in it...

His hand was still tightening on her collar, but he wasn't maneuvering her. She kissed him even harder as if to prompt and encourage him, but when his grip on her gown tightened, his fingers twisting the fabric so taut that it was tearing the stitching and taking skin with it - pinching and hurting - it was then that she realized his mouth was a solid line.

He wasn't kissing her back.

 _Compliant_.

Sansa blinked in confusion, and when she saw the frightening fury simmering in his eyes she was instantly afraid. He had never thrown her a look so spiteful and she found herself combing her mind, trying to determine what particular action would see him so angry. She simply couldn't find her deed, she couldn't understand why he was hurting her like that.

Tywin straightened his arm, pushing her back a couple of stumbling steps, but still held her gown in a vicious grip. He felt a rage seep into him that was so violent, so malevolent, it unlocked his darkness and his mind flashed the image of him running her through just to be rid of her. Rid of girl who proved him _a_ _fucking fool_.

But there was no cunning in her eyes, nothing of a game, just fear and confusion - and that only made him indignant.

"Is this what your mother advised you to do?"

Tywin was snarling at her, near rabid, he could not stop himself. He shook the fist that held her, causing Sansa to keen out a whimper at the pain it produced.

"I- No, my lord-" She was all but pleading.

"Tell me what she said! Tell me how she instructed you to _fuck_ for her freedom! _Tell me_!"

He was trembling in his rage; however, what he witnessed in his wife, the scared girl at the end of his cruelty, caused him to shiver for completely different reasons.

She became a ghost.

Her eyes became terrible in their emptiness, her skin greyed, her body slumped into his hand like dead weight, and when she spoke, her voice was distant and hollow. But it was _what_ she said that would forever haunt him.

"My mother told me that she would have rather seen my throat slit in front of her, dead like my brother, than have me married to you."

Her tone was droning, like ten thousand bees had infested the room.

"My mother told me that if I had any love for the North, or for my father, or for my brothers, I would kill you then find the highest battlement, the tallest tower perhaps, and throw myself off."

His grip on her collar was the only thing holding her up.

"My mother told me I was less than a common whore for sharing your bed."

He watched as Sansa's throat worked, as she seemed to focus on him once more, her voice had life again, but it was so broken.

"My mother told me she wished death to any children I may bear you, and hoped I would befall a fate the same as Lady Joanna."

Tywin felt bile rising in his throat, his mind was rushing from fact to reference; he tried picturing his own mother speaking to Genna that way, of Joanna speaking to Cersei with such poison. He couldn't and it was making him furious. He looked at his wife... There she was, sublime and shattered once more. He cursed the Gods, all of them, old and new and foreign, as he slowly lowered her, her legs long since working to keep her upright. She came to rest on her knees between his feet, her arms draped over each of his knees - they were the only things preventing her from crumpling to the floor completely.

Tywin was swallowing hard, over and over again. He thought to give her peace by retrieving her mother, he had never imagined _this_. Never imagined he could be so wrong about Catelyn Tully.

He let her go, his fingers cramping from holding so tight for so long, but he kept his fingertips over where he knew he'd marked her.

"Sansa... I..."

He was at a loss. For everything.

" _I'm sorry_."

It tasted caustic, but not because he didn't mean the words. He was sorry - because her mother gave her venom instead of love, because she was hurting again, because he hurt her _again_. Because he was failing her. Because he was failing himself by doing so. Beyond who this girl was, she was his wife. Beyond her name, her claim, and her womb, he pledged vows to her - in front of the Gods he hated, but believed in nonetheless.

" _I am... sorry..._ "

He had no idea he was muttering until he felt her hand lightly squeeze his forearm and heard her speak. He concentrated on the poor girl clinging to him; _still there_ , _with him_. He wondered then if it wasn't the tenacious creature herself that was preventing him from failing their union entirely.

Tears welled in her eyes but didn't fall. "When does it end, my lord?"

He tilted his head in question.

"The suffering," she said in a harsh whisper, sounding of both fury and sadness. "When will I stop _suffering_?"

Tywin found himself choking down a thick tightening in his throat and clenching his jaw in an effort to regain his determination. Leaning forward then, resting his elbows on his thighs and cupping her face in his palms, the old lion traced his thumbs where the tears would have been if she had allowed them.

"It doesn't end, my lady." He knew it was brutal, but it was the truth. "There will always be suffering, in one capacity or another waiting for you in this life." His features were stony and emotionless, but his touch on her was in complete contrast.

She closed her eyes in defeat, the pooled tears finally pushed out, sliding into the thumbs that were ready for them.

"Look at me, Sansa." His throat was still tight and it made his voice gruff. He marveled for a moment, as she opened her eyes, at the delicate tears clinging to her eyelashes - it was like rain on a spiders web, and was sorrowfully beautiful. When he was confident she was focused on him again, he continued. "But there is always a choice. Whether you allow it to bury you, or whether you fight your way through it."

Tywin leaned in further and kissed her softly on the mouth. Pulling back from her again, he whispered sternly, "What do you choose?"

Sansa looked at her husband, first in blurry indecision, then with a steely resolution; she raised her hands and gripped his wrists hard, her voice was gritty but confident. "Fight," she said, squeezing his wrists harder. "I choose to _fight_."

Her husband's eyes narrowed, dissecting her sincerity, determining if she meant her words or if she were simply trying to appease him.

All he saw was the truth of _her_.

And when his wife sat taller on her knees and kissed him soundly, again Tywin surrendered to her. He kissed her deeply, tasting the salty flavour of tears pronounced on her tongue; he devoured them for her, not wanting her to ever taste them again. She wrapped her arms around his neck, moved her mouth away from his and rested her head on her own shoulder. Tywin could feel her hot breath on his cheek, and when her arms pulled tighter, he took his cue and wound his own around her back; holding her close, holding her up. Simply holding her.

"Make the pain go away, my lord. _Please_. Just for a little while."

What a sad, pitiful thing it is to have to ask to be bedded in order to wash away the torment of what waits on the outskirts of accepted memory. But it was a sedative no different than drinking; something to numb the pain. Tywin knew the trick was to alleviate the source of the pain before it could become troublesome, but what his wife had endured that day, and the more recent moons before it, was something that would fracture most men. The fact that Sansa had the wherewithal to trudge through the leagues of horror she had been subjected to, recently and before, more than earned what she asked of him. He would not question her.

He would not deny her.

Cinching his arms tighter around her back, Tywin stood with her as she was: arms wrapped about his neck, face buried in his cheek, feet dangling loose at his shins. That was how he walked them both to their bedchamber, dismissing servants as he went with a glare or a flick of his fingers.

He laid her down on their bed and crawled to a position above her. She reached between them and brushed her fingertips across the bulge in his breeches where the laces were straining, and he swept them away with his.

"You will have it..." Tywin said. Then set to kissing and sucking on her neck, speaking through his ministrations. "...When I am done with you."

He stripped her slowly, uncomplicated her hair, made a point to kiss her through every reduced layer: her breasts, her collarbone, her hips, her center; allowing her to appreciate the gradually building sensations. By the time he had her naked, Sansa was panting and visibly wet. Her blatant arousal ushered even more blood to his groin, prompting him to divest himself of clothing as fast as he was able. Naked at last he leaned down again, slid his hands behind her and lifted both of them until he was sitting on his heels and she was poised over his lap.

She looked at him. Just looked, then smiled a tiny amount.

Using the strength of her thighs, Sansa raised herself a little higher, reached between them for the second time, and aligned his cock with her entrance.

Sansa never took her eyes off her husband, and when she sank onto the full length of him the air seemed to leave the room. She rested her head on his shoulder as he manipulated her arse, lifting her up then setting her back down in long strokes. Every impale was met with a sigh-turned-moan and Tywin knew that _this_ was what she had wanted all along.

Such simplicity, yet he tended to complicate it despite all of his knowledge, despite all of his experience.

 _A fucking fool, indeed._

After a several minutes, he could feel her hands gripping onto his back and he knew she was looking for release of a different kind.

Nuzzling his mouth beside her ear, Tywin gave a clear and concise instruction.

" _Fight_."

Sansa leaned away from him slightly, looking him in the face, her hips grinding, she used her hands and pushed him back a tiny amount - not enough for him to lose his balance.

He watched her lean into him again, her lips making contact with his neck. She was kissing and licking and nipping him in a way she knew he liked. Tywin responded with a deep growl in the back of his throat. She kissed down, over his collarbone, and concentrated her effort on one spot high on the muscle of his chest. Her attention was pleasant, thoughtful even, until she forcefully bit down on that same spot.

Tywin was taken by surprise, gritting the pain through his teeth, forcing his hands to stay on her backside instead of shoving her away. The pressure of her teeth intensified, and when she ground her jaw slightly he let out yelp, but he did not stop her. He wanted to fuck into her harder in retaliation, but found out quite quickly that the more violently he moved the more violently her teeth cut into his flesh.

She pulled away as fast as she bit down and looked at him with anger in her eyes.

Tywin gave the look right back, still guiding her to ride his cock, but when he glanced at her breasts, as beautiful as they were, his attention was drawn to the ugly blemish his furious hand had marked her with. Considering it further, he realized that Sansa had marked the same spot on his own body.

He twitched a grin at her; his wife was a clever one.

Sansa returned his smile with one that cast an air of mischief, one that he would distrust on any other face save the one looking at him. She moved in closer again, slid her arms under his until they rested on his back and proceeded to dig her nails into the skin and muscle there. Tywin sunk his face into the curve of her neck and tried to concentrate on the feel of her cunt sheathing and unsheathing his prick, but the gouges were getting deep and there was only so much his ego would allow. In a quick move, Tywin laid her back on the bed and pulled her hands from behind him, pinning each of them above her head with each of his, he lowered his mouth and kissed her hard.

" _Enough_ ," he growled onto her lips.

Swaying back once more sitting on his heels, Sansa's hips and waist now laid arched down his thighs, her head and shoulders still on the bed. The sight was sparking excitement in his senses. The line of her belly pulled taut, the pronouncement of her ribs, her breasts firm but moving with every breath and every thrust, her arms stretched out above her head, the feel of the clench and release on his cock, the sound of her airy moaning...

His hands wrapped themselves around her hips, thumbs resting at the jut as his fingers dug into her fleshy backside and he started to pivot and angle her as he varied his depth and strokes.

It was as though her husband was looking for something.

He knew he had found his mark when she gasped deep and looked dazed. The tip of his cock was nudging that roughened patch of secrecy inside her. He kept her in place and fucked with short hard thrusts, stroking it repeatedly. Sweat was rolling down his back, stinging the lines she'd carved there, spurring him on. He could see beads of it glistening in the valley of her breasts as well and wanted nothing more than to lick it away; but no, his duty was to her first. Placing the palm of his hand over her pelvic bone, he pressed down, increasing contact inside, causing Sansa to groan from somewhere deep in her chest. Several minutes of careful ministrations saw his wife start to tense, he knew she was close, and when she opened her eyes in panic, her arms swinging down and her nails digging into his knees, he knew how to sate her.

"Sansa." He slowed to a stop in order to talk to her.

She was embarrassed, he could see that plainly, but she looked him in the eye regardless.

 _My brave girl._

His hands traveled up her body, massaging every part of her, calming her.

"Do you trust me?"

He watched her breathing heavy, considering her answer, and he found himself once again feeling flawed because she had to consider her trust in him in the first place.

" _Yes_ ," she breathed.

Tywin started moving again - short, hard thrusts - a steady rhythm aimed at her most elusive spot.

"You'll not make water," he said, and watched her existing blush intensify. Tywin couldn't help but smirk at her scandal. "When you feel that way again," he continued. "I want you to close your eyes and relax."

Her breathing was deepening again, but she pulled her brows together in a silent protest.

"You'll not Sansa," he said between breaths, grinning in his own way. "I assure you."

Sansa looked at her husband then. This was the version of him she adored. This was the version of him that made it easy to forget a name, forget who they both were. It was the man whose eyes smiled. It was the man who was capable of caring in small bouts.

He continued moving inside her, pressing his palm low on her abdomen. Sweat was dripping into his eyes and off his nose by the time her body started to tense again. When she felt the deep flutter start again, Sansa closed her eyes; he watched as her hands fisted into the bed linen, her head lolled to the side and he heard a continuous low mewl spilling from her parted lips.

All at once Sansa inhaled deeply, her inner walls clenched around him like a vice, she let out a moaning cry and his cock and thighs were soaked in her wetness. But it was the pleasure he could see rippling through her that was of greater value. Tywin stretched out over top of his wife, gathered her in his arms - the pliable thing she was - and fucked her in long lazy pushes and pulls.

She was moaning sheer joy through every movement.

He knew in that moment she was someplace better, somewhere that suffering did not exist, and he worked to give her respite for as long as possible. When he felt her fingers find purchase on his back again, he allowed himself a faster pace, a deeper push, and as she breathed his name beside his ear he murmured a name-prayer of his own and spent hot inside her body.

It was long minutes they stayed like that, him over top her like a shelter, before he heard her voice reemerging as something coherent.

"Wha-"

She was still shuddering in waves, talking into his shoulder, holding onto him for fear of being washed away completely. He induced her silence by rolling his hips, fucking her with his softening cock.

It was enough to make her forget her questions and bought him reprieve from telling her that it was his first wife who taught him the intimacies of women. That after a year of marriage Joanna presented him the filthiest, gods-send of a book he had ever allowed his eyes to view, and _that_ particulartechnique was something that took moons to conquer. That he'd willfully forgotten it after Joanna died because no one deserved that kind of happiness, least of all him. That he'd forgotten about the book altogether until a servant found it years later in the room his children played in.

Her silence prevented him from confessing that just looking at her, in any setting, in any context, Sansa made him want that joy again, and that it scared him more than he would ever admit.

Instead, he held her tight, buried his face in her neck and hair, absorbed her humming contentment and hoped, _hoped_ , his actions would speak a fraction of what he felt.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin stayed with his wife as long as he could, but it was early afternoon yet and he would eventually have to leave in order to fulfill his duty as Hand.

She was awake and sated for the most part when he finally called for a bath and to be attended. He didn't have to look at her to know she wasn't smiling though, her pain once again a blanket on her. However, she was neither weeping nor grieving; she was processing it - registering and calculating it. Tywin knew with every confidence that his wife would once again prevail. Once again move forward.

It was as he finished the tedium that made up the majority of his days that he knew he had one more matter that needed resolving, and he made his way to the small set of rooms assigned to Catelyn Tully. A large percentage of himself knew his wife was speaking the truth of what her mother said to her, but there was a tiny amount, the smallest of fractions, that could not really believe it. He had known Lady Catelyn as a young woman at Riverrun; he would never claim to know her more than decorum allotted, but he knew enough of the girl from speaking with her, that her house words were more than just a series of letters.

When he entered her rooms he immediately dismissed her maids, but spoke to one in passing. "Is she well?"

The young woman did not meet his eye. "Yes, m'lord," the maid said. "She eats, she drinks, she bathes. But has not said a word other than to Lady Sansa."

With another flick of his fingers the girl promptly left.

Lady Catelyn was sitting at a small table within the bedchamber, it was near the window, the view was of the water. Her face was covered in bandages and judging by the amount of them, Tywin knew her wounds were significant. The room smelled of the poultice that must have been used under the dressings, and it somehow added to the unease he was feeling.

"Lady Catelyn."

She did not bother looking at him.

"So she sent her old lion," she scoffed, a bitter sound. "Whatever you've done to her, you've certainly made her weak." Catelyn flicked her eyes at him then. "But I suppose that's the way you like them."

Tywin raised his eyebrows at her entertaining show of bravado, scoffed his own bitter sound and attempted to retort.

"Sansa is a stro-"

"My children are _dead_ , Lannister. No thanks to you."

" _No._ " His tone was that of a parent scolding a child. "Your daughter lives, and wishes to have her mother by her side."

"And which daughter is that? The one you lied about having, or the one you fucked into a traitor?"

His mind cringed. If this was the woman Sansa found that morning Tywin fully understood the pain she had been dealt.

"Stop being a damn fool, my lady" he spat. "Your daughter came to see you. Need I remind you of your duty as a mother?"

The face of Lady Catelyn softened to one that was familiar, one that he remembered from Riverrun and various tourneys. One that he would be happy to inform Sansa had reemerged.

"No, my lord, you don't." Even her voice was the one he recalled, and that please him... Until she finished, "That is why I am asking you now to honour the wishes of _her mother_ , and kill her. It would be a mercy."

Tywin's fury was simmering. "I will _not_ ," he growled. "And you would do well to get over your stupidity, my lady."

Her features and tone did not change, but the look in her eyes was deadly.

"Tell me, Lord Tywin, was it the prospect of bedding a child, or was it the prospect of bedding a Stark that prompted your own stupidity?"

His fury consumed him then, he leaned down and brought his face a mere hands width away from hers. "You will not request to see Lady Sansa," he seethed. "She will not be denied access to you, but the choice will be _hers_." His demeanour switched to something made of pure menace. "But if you disturb her, like your folly today, I will personally see to it you suffer to a degree that will make your time with the Freys seem favourable."

Lady Catelyn did not so much as flinch, and when she spoke her voice was cold and distant. "Threats, my lord, lose their edge when you have been through what I have." She wore a smile, and it would have been sweet if it weren't so empty. "Women are resilient, I've discovered. Resilient in both body and mind to the depthless treachery of men."

Tywin leaned in closer then, ensuring his words were felt as much as they were heard. "I am well aware."

She didn't know or understand the reference, but Lady Stark knew the implication of his statement.

"Is that what you do to Sansa?" Her personality folded in on itself again, her smile was malicious.

"One more suggestion like _that_ , my lady, and the unpleasantness starts here and now."

It was all he could do to grit the words through his teeth without reaching forward and choking the life out of the woman in front of him. He watched as she considered him for a moment, then tilted her head slightly - as a dog would at an unknown sound.

"You _love_ her." Her statement was delivered in a tone of absolute victory.

Tywin stepped back, as though she breathed knives instead of words. He didn't speak just held her icy gaze with one of his own, and all too soon he realized that the gap of silence had turned into an admission on his part, and that to speak and deny it would be a confirmation, and to give her the words she wanted to hear would be a weakness... He did not love Sansa, not like what he knew love to be, but-

Lady Stark started laughing, loud and unbidden, startling Tywin out of his contemplation. Hers was a laugh the lion was familiar with. One that he could still hear echoing through the very halls he traversed daily. It was a laugh built primarily on paranoia and, as was the case with Lady Catelyn, anchored in grief and suffering.

It was madness.

Lord Tywin then took the only recourse remaining: he turned without word and left.

It wasn't long into the trek back to the Tower that he decided Lady Catelyn would not stay in King's Landing. She would remain a captive, of course, but she would do so at Casterly Rock.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She didn't know the specifics of the emergency that shuffled her from the sitting room of their apartments, she only knew that it was staged for that particular purpose: for _her_ particular purpose. Sansa had been pulled and led through corridors and crevices within the walls of the Tower. Ones she never knew existed, and was quite happy to be ignorant of given their extent and potential use. The idea was frightening. But it had been a soft, calming voice that guided her through stagnant air and dark catacombs. That same voice had eventually brought her to a hooded figure waiting by two horses in an unknown thicket of the King's Wood.

There was still plenty of light in the early evening, but as she stood and looked about she could not obtain her bearings in relation to the castle, and _that_ was frightening too.

Lord Varys left her in the company of the hooded stranger, didn't make introductions, just turned and shuffled off to his next task.

The hooded figure spoke first and in a rather stunned voice, said, "My lady?"

The voice was vaguely familiar, something from far away. Even when the man pulled back his hood to reveal a dirty ruddy face covered in a shaggy beard, she felt she knew him but could not place him. It was uncanny.

"Harwin, my lady," the man said quietly. "Do you remember me?" He smiled small and pained. "My father, Hullen, was the Master of Horse in Winterfell."

Sansa was quickly inundated in a tide of memories and remembrance of a kind man, of kind _men_ , all who followed her father to King's Landing. All who died because of her.

 _Blood through her fingers_.

Sansa smiled at him, equally small and equally pained. "I remember," she said. She had to gather herself from her remembrance, she had to know. "Where have you been? Have you come from the North?"

"No my lady, your father sent me with Lord Beric Dondarrion to apprehend Lannister raiders..." He looked at her, embarrassed, his line of thought looked to have snapped. Harwin cleared his throat and continued, "After your father... We... We stayed as a company... Out there..." He nodded in some unknown direction through the trees.

Lady Sansa knew exactly who they were.

"The Brotherhood Without Banners," she breathed.

Harwin nodded, but Sansa didn't need his confirmation. She had been reading missives and enduring various commanders and lords cursing this same Brotherhood for well over a year. After the death of her father, the hunters had become the hunted and instead of disbanding, surrendering, or running, The Brotherhood Without Banners chose to stay, be labeled outlaws and fight a semblance of the fight her father had charged them with.

"How did you..." Sansa was going to say, _get here_ , but the question, like the thicket, would have been an enigma. "Were you in King's Landing?" She settled on.

The man in front of her swallowed hard before speaking. "We saw Lannister men taking a prisoner from The Twins, I was told to follow and observe." He furrowed his brow and continued, "It was Lord Varys that found me." Harwin stood up straighter. "Told me that Lady Stark wished to meet me - had a task for me."

She smiled genuinely at his pride, and offered, "It is said Lord Varys knows your business before you do."

He smiled back. "I can believe that Lady Sta..." Harwin drifted his address of her, not feeling comfortable branding her with the name he knew had been tossed aside.

"Sansa," she finished for him as her smile reduced. She knew she was just as much a traitor now to those of the North as she was, before she was married, to those of the South. It seemed a label she would always wear; however, as her meeting with the man from The Brotherhood Without Banners suggested, one she would never conform to.

"Lady Sansa." He said it with a smile and a familiar tone, the tone his father had. It reminded her of home, if her childhood. It ached in its comfort.

She smiled back at him, genuine again, before she became serious. "The task I am asking you to shoulder is the care and responsibility of my mother." Sansa continued before he could ask the questions she knew he had on his lips. "That was who you followed from The Twins. It is who I am asking you to... rescue." It seemed the right word, from unrealistic songs or not, for what she was asking of him.

He looked surprised but didn't speak as she expected him to. Instead he looked back at the two horses, two of Lannister's finest, that were tacked, hobbled and grazing nearby.

"You will be provided for," she said confidently. "In the saddlebags of the black horse, you will find enough gold to get you back to the Riverlands... Or... Or wherever you decide to go... Quite safely, and then some."

He glanced back to her now, his voice and look not as pleasant as before. "The gold will provide for the people your husband set his dogs on?"

She concealed her grimace. She knew Tywin had let loose Gregor Clegane to burn and pillage, and even though Robb was dead he had yet to bring The Mountain to heel. He and his men were still out there.

"Outside the well being of my mother, I trust you to spend it as you see fit." She kept her tone a practiced neutral. "Lady Catelyn has her own agenda, one that is in line with yours. One that I will support to the best of my ability."

Harwin laughed at that, full bellied and equally mocking. "The wife of _Tywin Lannister_ is going finance the same men her husband wants dead?"

"The _very same_ ," Sansa bit out.

He narrowed his eyes then. "What kind of trick is this?"

"There is no _trick!_ " She was exasperated, her point had been made, surely. "The gold is there, see for yourself."

And she watched as he did just that.

"There will be more if you require it. Lord Varys has given you means to contact him, and that is what you will do. Any attempt to reach me directly will, as you can imagine, have dire consequences."

His smile was back, but this one was made more of misbehaviour. "Dire for us both I'd assume."

Lady Lannister answered without missing her cue. "I don't recommend trying to live on assumptions, ser."

Harwin lost his mocking smile. The girl had control somewhere and he would be a fool to try and determine whether it was actual or perceived. He nodded his agreement in the end.

"Harwin, I feel I have to advise you... My mother isn't..." She had practiced this part in her head many times, but the reality of it was something she could never truly prepare for. "Lady Stark is not the same woman you remember."

"Your father's death, King Robb, the war and all has changed us, every single one, my lady."

His voice was laced with the kind of sincerity Sansa trusted. That of the North. Sansa tried to smile, she truly did, but the hurt of those losses the man had mentioned made it looked forced.

Marching ahead, leaving her dead behind, Sansa explained, "She has been through a tremendous amount of torment and it has... affected her."

"Then would it not be better if she stayed here to be cared for, my lady?"

Sansa shook her head solemnly.

"She would not thrive here, or anywhere she felt a captive." Sansa closed herself off from thinking of her mother's torture. "She is driven now by her need for vengeance, and I want to ensure she has it within her grasp."

Harwin looked at her warily, not quite knowing if, or how, to interpret Lady Sansa's intent for her mother.

"My lady, I do not live in a place of comfort. There are no amenities and it is no true place for a lady - highborn or otherwise."

Sansa regarded him thoughtfully, and said, "You followed her for a reason, Harwin. Whether out of duty to my father or to Winterfell, it matters not. What matters is that you, and those you companion with, are who she needs right now."

Harwin slacked some at her assurance, then straightened suddenly, as though he remembered something important.

"Your sist-"

All was left forgotten the moment they heard footfalls, the pair became silent. Harwin, without prompt or hesitation, drew his sword and placed himself in front of Sansa. Using his hand, in the event he would have to swing to defend her, he gently pushed and placed her at a safe distance behind him. She stood frightened, though couldn't help but smile internally at the honourable north man. Her father would be proud.

Lord Varys emerged with her mother in tow. She was heavily shrouded under a dull cloak.

Harwin sheathed his blade and bowed to the hooded figure. "Lady Stark, my name is Harwin, son of Hullen, Master of Horse at Winterfell."

He watched as the figure pushed back her hood and was concerned regarding the bandages she wore on her face and neck. Other than the auburn hair, white streaks and all, and the blue of her eyes that were distinctly Tully, Harwin would not have known this was the same graceful woman who held the hearts of every soul in Winterfell.

 _...a tremendous amount of torment..._

At that thought, any apprehension he had regarding the want to be responsible for his liege turned to dust.

"I am at your service, my lady."

The woman didn't smile, didn't nod or acknowledge him verbally, she simply walked and took her place beside and in front of him.

It was then she turned to Sansa, extending the same cruel demeanour as their first meeting.

"And what exactly do _you_ want, Lady Lannister?"

"The same thing you want, Lady Stark."

Sansa returned an outward posture she was sure was plucked directly from a memory of her husband... and felt her heart break a little more. This wasn't the way it should have been between a daughter and a mother, but her sadness was forming its own version of resolve and it only served to confirm and fortify her current position toward the woman wearing her mother's skin.

"You told me you wanted them to pay, my lady. Is that still your desire?" _Gods,_ she even sounded like Tywin.

The woman in front of her almost growled, " _Yes.._."

"My marriage does not change the fact that I am the daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully," Sansa stated, and was gratified when the woman winced. "Just as it doesn't change the fact that I am of the North."

The woman's eyes softened slightly and Sansa knew she was speaking to more of her mother. She leaned in a little and chanced holding her hand, her fingers really, before she continued.

"The North remembers, mother." She squeezed the fingers she was holding as she spoke in a soft urgency. " _The North remembers_."

The woman looked at her for a moment as though in careful thought, and squeezed her fingers back only once before letting go completely and resuming a look of distance. Sansa was about to give up her hope of granting her mother revenge. The notion was drifting away as the woman barely acknowledged her words. Sansa would have to carry on with her contingency plan and provide for Harwin and his men, and rest easy knowing her mother was at least no longer a captive...

That was until the woman nodded at her. Lady Catelyn must have read the confusion in Sansa's eyes because the woman nodded again at her before turning to Harwin and speaking. "I want their blood. I want their lives." Her tone carried a lethal ferocity. She looked back to Sansa. "Lannisters will die in turn, be warned."

Sansa wore a carefully arranged mask of indifference and simply nodded. It would be something to deal with when the time came, not now.

The woman turned her back without another word and walked past Harwin toward their waiting mounts.

"My lady."

Harwin bowed to Sansa and held a look in his eye that she knew meant her mother would be cared for, and she smiled small and sad at the man, but nodded her every assurance. She watched as he helped her mother onto her horse and mounted his own and, not that she was expecting it, neither spared a glance to her as they began to ride.

The soft shuffle of feet and even softer voice behind her reminded Sansa that she wasn't alone.

"I'm truly sorry for what has happened your family, my lady - to your mother."

Varys always sounded sincere, but Sansa was never sure if it was just part of his act. As she watched the figures shrink into the distance, her voice cut cleanly, quiet but hardened.

"My mother died at The Twins, my lord," she said, still looking at the tiny silhouettes. "Butchered with my brother and his northern allies." She turned finally, once the figures were gone completely and addressed Lord Varys with thoughtful sadness. "No, my lord, _that_ woman is nothing of Catelyn Stark. Nothing of the mother I loved, with her warm and good heart..." Sansa clenched her jaw and started to walk past him.

"No. _That_ woman is made of stone."

She took his silence as understanding and kept walking, following the path he had shown her, the one that would place her back where she needed to be to conclude her ruse. However, it was the truth. All of it. The woman set free was not Catelyn Stark, but a creature broken to the core and bent on revenge. So, when her husband found her in the small room off the other sleeping chambers in their apartments, a room she designated as her bower and used when Tywin needed privacy; when he asked her pointedly, angrily, if she was in any way responsible for the release of her mother, she truthfully answered, _No_.

She watched as he huffed and raged and scrutinized her until he was satisfied she wasn't being devious. Whether he suspected something outside what she told him he would never say, or even let on, but she knew her husband better than anyone. She knew he was well aware of what she'd done, but he was also well aware of her debt. And it was the latter that was of far greater concern for Lord Tywin of House Lannister.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As to be expected, in the fortnight that had come and gone since the escape of Catelyn Tully, there had been no mention of it between Lord and Lady Lannister. There had, in fact, been airs and sightings of the fugitive here and there, but nothing that prompted the concern or pursuit by Crown or Lannister forces. Neither was there a break in the siege at Riverrun, and Sansa concluded that that would be where her mother would aim her rage. Freys and Lannisters both, sitting in wait for what she could only imagine was bloodshed at its finest.

She cringed at the thought.

Before she could think any more on the matter, long fingers turned and pushed a letter across the desktop in her direction. A part of her didn't want to pick it up, let alone read it. The part that found every death and scheme and theory and complaint that were laid out in words, leeched her strength. She took a long look at her husband then; Kevan had told her he'd been this way since they were children. Sansa remembered playing and gossiping and enjoying her friends from that time in her life, and she could not help but feel sorry for him in a way.

He never looked tired though, not like how she felt, drained and exhausted. To him every letter was a puzzle, or a piece to a greater riddle. And it was the challenge of choice and ascertaining answers that gave him a particular joy. Sansa found she shared that same joy, just not with the same intensity, and sometimes not even toward the same element of the riddle. Her husband told her she had an abstract perspective, Tyrion told her she was sly. Either way, it was _that_ part of her which picked up the letter and focused her eyes to read.

After several minutes, she lowered the missive and looked at her husband with concern. "The Boltons hold the North?"

"Let them." His tone was cool and distracted, as though the news meant nothing.

"But-"

"What are your house words, my lady?"

He looked at her then and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Hear Me Roar."

The stare Tywin gave her made her feel as though she was a small child failing the simplest of tasks.

 _Little Sansa Stark, always trying to please._

She did feel stupid and looked down then. Smiling and scoffing at herself before raising her eyes at him again. Tywin himself was wearing a tiny smirk.

"Winter Is Coming," she amended.

He kept the smirk as he nodded his head, reiterating, "Let them."

Her brows bunched in mild confusion and she spoke her thoughts as they were emerging.

"Do you mean to attack in wint- No..."

The pictures lined up fast and she _knew_ she had the answer.

"Let winter _destroy_ them." Her smile was gone. "We will take Winterfell at the onset of spring."

Sansa hadn't realize but she was speaking in a lowered tone, a voice built on the notion of violence, and watched as her husband, the Great Lion of Casterly Rock, carved his smirk into a grin.

...

..

.


	12. Winter I

...

..

.

The beginnings of wintery weather in King's Landing was much like the summer snowstorms Sansa remembered from Winterfell. Skies were miserable, the sun barely made an appearance, and the snow itself came down in thick, sticky flakes. The only cold that seemed to stay was an icy wet that soaked through clothing and brought with it dreadful coughs, bouts of illness, and plenty of death.

Lord and Lady Lannister were fortunate to avoid sickness, but the damp chill pursued everyone regardless of economic or familial status. Stone walls and tall towers held onto the terrible perpetual dank, making the lowly and sagging wooden structures of Flea Bottom seem appealingly warm. Nights were the worst of it with the wind shear howling in from the coastline plummeting the cold even deeper, reminding the population that their control was not without limit. That natural forces would always govern them, their comfort, and whether they lived or died.

It was a particularly frigid night that Tywin woke to the sounds of groaning. His first assumption was a gale meeting the unmovable structure of the castle, but when the low guttural noise ended with a pant, in what could only be described as pain, he knew to look closer for a culprit.

Sansa.

There were so many coverings and furs piled on top of them that he could just see a cap of auburn poking out from the top edge of it all. She was further away from him than was her habit, even more unusual considering the low temperatures. When he stretched to touch his wife his fingers registered only a sickly-cold damp seeping through her heavy bedgown. As quick as he could manage through the weight of the abundant coverings, Tywin crawled to her. She was curled up on her side, away from him, and the closer he got to her the more pronounced her groaning became. She was awake and rocking in her position, whimpering and shaking. Placing a hand on her shoulder prompted her peering back at him wearing a look of unguarded panic and utter fear.

"It hurts..." she said, barely a whisper breathed through her teeth.

Tywin raised himself to his knees and leaned over her in order to look at her more directly. Her vagueness sparked his annoyance - if there was something wrong this was hardly the time make him guess. He tried to make it sound even, but his words were flung out as more of a bark.

" _What_ hurts, Sansa?"

She curled more tightly into herself and cried quietly, "My belly."

Now his mind was snapping to references and probabilities, and in that same moment he threw every fur and blanket off his wife, gave a cursory glance over her before leaning back on his heels to take in more of her form... He shivered in his own right. When he saw the blood in their bed, soaked through her bed gown, on her, _there_ , Tywin Lannister was rendered to stone. His was a terror that managed to surface from a place long buried decades before. It was a reaction he had to mentally and physically force himself out of. One he had to shut himself off from in order to be able to find his legs and rush to summon the Maester.

 _I want to be a mother._ Sansa had told him this seemingly out of nowhere, but with the conviction of a decision that had been thoroughly deliberated.

He gave her what she wanted, granted her something he _knew_ he could provide after she had suffered a seemingly endless wave of personal devastation. He knew she was strong, another nameday gone, a woman grown, but rising above all that was the fact that she was ready. _She_ made the choice, and that was what he had been waiting for.

Tywin would have seen to it she had done her duty and provided him heirs regardless, but he wanted her to feel she had both power and influence in her own life. Her perceived strength allowing him a greater legacy in the long run... At least, that's what he told himself. When she missed her moonblood, her eyes held an excitement he had not seen before, a happiness he remembered in Joanna, and he had tried so hard - and failed so miserably - to feel it too. When Sansa missed yet another cycle he finally, slowly, allowed himself to acknowledge the tiny flutter inside him. The same flutter he felt watching Cersei and Jaime grow in their mother's belly...

But now he was trying to piece together exactly how many moons Sansa was with child, and as he did so he felt that exact part of his mind shut down, infuriating him. Simple math was all he needed in that moment and instead he was hopelessly lost in the blood and noise in front of him. However, at once, his feet were moving and his voice was speaking. Instinct as a rule was never completely absent and had Tywin yanking and yelling for guards and servants alike, sending for the Maester, for baths, for linens, for handmaids to attend Sansa, and it wasn't until Lyol brought him light breeches and a fresh tunic that Tywin looked down to see his own golden bedgown stained in the wrong kind of crimson.

Maester Pycelle arrived within what seemed like heartbeats and was instantly ushered into the bedchamber. The old lion again moved his feet out of instinct and made his way in the opposite direction, to his solar, summoning for wine in the meantime.

Changed and alone, sitting behind the desk in his private room, Tywin took stock: Sansa was just over three moons with child and she was losing the babe, there was no question in that detail.

Pycelle requested audience after a time and stepped in at Tywin's command.

"My lord," his voice did not so much waver as it did hesitate, "the child is lost." Pycelle waited for Lord Tywin to speak, but there was only silence between them. The Hand did not bother to look up from his cup of wine, so the Maester continued. "Lady Sansa fares well, my lord. She is of a strong line, and shall recover quickly."

Tywin flicked his eyes at the man and wordlessly told him his patience was waning. There was nothing this man was telling him that he did not already know.

"I will return later this morning to assess her again, my lord."

The old lion blinked slow and spoke in a tone brimming with warning. "This, like the pregnancy, will not be spoken of."

Maester Pycelle looked affronted, his words the same. "Of course, my lord-"

With a glare that screamed violence, and a pointed nod in the direction of the door, Tywin dismissed the Maester and returned his focus to the cup in his hand. It was only then that he noticed the rippling tremors on the surface of his wine. His hands were shaking. Setting his cup down he fisted both hands and called for Lyol.

"Where is Lady Sansa now?"

The steward took his place to the side and behind his liege, and answered, "She is being bathed and tended to, my lord."

Tywin clenched his fists tighter, to the point of pain.

"Have her own chambers readied. Take her to them once she is prepared."

"Yes..." Lyol was not one to question his lord, but the order created a subconscious pause that translated to an actual one. "...My lord, of course."

The stumble was not addressed, but it was noted.

Alone again, Tywin opened his hands in order to view the damage on his palms. His bloodied, shivering palms. He closed his eyes, placed his hands flat against the desktop, and again took stock. This time it was of his own person. His breathing was suitably paced, his pulse was fine, his mind was not rushing, but his hands kept quaking. And there, in a tiny hollow, pushed back to the outermost part of his own recognition, he found his answer.

Fear.

Unadulterated, purely maligned fear.

If he focused on the fear he would lose himself, so he pushed it farther back to where it had been, hardened himself for the consequences and moved forward as he would normally. As he strode to his bedchamber, Sansa was being escorted to her own. He walked past her as though she were no more than a stick of furniture in the room.

"Tywin..."

She addressed him in a voice influenced by whatever Pycelle had given her for the pain and was reaching for him as her handmaids were steering her, almost against her will, toward her chambers.

"M-My lord?"

It was so full of confused anguish. She reached harder, as if he simply had not seen her. Tywin hardened his eyes, ground his back teeth and walked on, sparing her nothing in his journey.

In his bed - _their bed_ \- his shaking hands dogged him further. Once more Tywin closed his eyes, this time in defeat and exhaustion, and openly invited his fear to consume him...

 _He was walking in blood, wading in it, toward a golden light. The light was Joanna, and she was drowning in the black-crimson that was now up to his waist. He reached her, he held her to keep her above the gore, but her head tipped back and her hair soaked up the red like ink on linen._

 _The blood was to his chest and when he held the back of Joanna's head, lifting it up and away from the black tide that was trying to engulf her, she had turned into Sansa. His hands were now full of copper instead of gold, and it was as though she were made of it as well. The weight was pulling her under; his muscles burned at the effort to keep her from slipping below the surface, but it was not enough. Her face was slowly being enveloped by the thick warm sea of blood that was now almost to his neck._

 _He tried screaming at her to wake and save herself, but his words were eaten before they left his lungs._

 _The weight was too much, his arms could hold her no longer._

 _He felt his body sob a violent, silent spasm as she was swallowed under wave after wave..._

Tywin's eyes snapped open from his dream and the first thing he acknowledged was his racing heart. The second were the spiky peaks of rage and fear tingling their way through him. The third thing Lord Tywin acknowledged was the fact that he was weeping - no sound just tears tripping down his cheeks. His hands had stilled, his body was calming, and his mind was purging anxiety in the only way it could.

He let it happen. To fight it would be folly, he knew that intimately.

He endured.

The dead of night stretched on and Tywin remained awake, his terror continuing to seep away, and in much the same way he was awoken initially had caught his attention once agin. Faint at first, he strained to hear what became terribly apparent.

Sansa was crying as well. A sorrow of the same breed but a different volume, and it made his heart feel like it was turning around in his chest. But Tywin simply could not go to her. He could not be strong for her when he had no strength left for himself.

His wife needed him and he would have shattered at her feet, useless.

He had failed them both.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It had been a full turn of the moon since that night, and Tywin continued to turn his wife away - from their bed, from him, from everything.

Her husband would barely talk to her, he refused to take meals with her, and rarely worked in their apartments. Opting instead to stay late in the Map Room or in the Royal solar adjacent the Throne Room.

In that time, Sansa found her own strength to push on and move forward. Not from some miraculous inner fortitude, but from the knowledge that she _had_ to. She had no one to turn to, with whom she could relate or sympathize... Not that it would have been allowed even if she did. The only time Tywin had spoken to her was to tell her that she was not to discuss the matter with anyone, no exceptions. The latter part of that handful of words was plainly pertaining to Tyrion.

The result was that it had left her to contemplate and delegate her own emotions.

She endured.

However, not without the awful tug of guilt and apprehension. The one thing she _should_ have been able to do, be a mother, she couldn't. Her womb had betrayed her. Tywin's absence was surely him realizing his mistake in marrying her and he was now determining her worth as a wife unable to provide the heir he needed.

Her husband required the single task her body was constructed for and she had bled it out on the bed linens, useless.

She had failed them both.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The day of Joffrey's wedding started early. The extensive list of guests and dignitaries were to break their fast in grand fashion then proceed into customary gift giving.

The attempt was made to wake Sansa more than once in those first hours of morning, the daylight seeming to have the same struggle as it fought to breach the horizon. The effort to coax her out of her warm bed and into the chilly morning air was only successful with the aid of hot tea sweetened with honey, which generated only minor petulance and whined out words on Sansa's part, and a collective sense of accomplishment from her handmaids. Who were finally able to achieve the first of their many tasks.

In a flurry of practiced maneuvering, they had their lady bathed and preened and dressed in the first of three gowns she would wear that day; the other two, for the wedding ceremony and the feast, had been set out and readied the previous evening.

Tywin had always seemed to have a sense for what she needed or wanted. In the time since her marriage, Sansa had never had to ask for clothing or jewelry. There had simply been someone who arrived from time to time who took her measurements, then days later there would be wrapped parcels or draped gowns awaiting her in their bedchamber.

...His bedchamber.

She enjoyed it, though. His taste in fabrics and finery was impeccable, and she had thanked him when the first such gift was newly hung within in the large wardrobe. Her husband had replied by snarling that she was a Lannister and was expected to look as such.

It was never touched upon again, but the gestures had always been there.

Until the blood came.

The gowns for this event had already been selected moons past, coordinating with the Queen and Lady Margaery, but there had been nothing besides from her husband as would normally be his custom.

Tywin had for all intents and purposes walked out of her life for more than a moon. So when he walked into her bedchamber that morning, where she was waiting for assistance in fastening her necklace, she was immediately uptight and suspect.

He stood rigid, his face severe, and glared at her.

Sansa could not maintain eye contact and opted to simply curtsy and greet him as propriety required.

"My lord," she said, keeping her eyes trained to the center of his impossibly black doublet with the impossibly fine gold stitching.

His voice was distracted, but somehow managed to be annoyed too. "My lady, are you ready-"

Lord Tywin dropped his words as his attention was caught by the ornate box sitting on his wife's vanity.

"What pray tell is _that_?" he clipped.

Sansa had to look up to her husband's face and follow the path of his gaze in order to understand what he was referring to. She spoke in that direction, her voice matter of fact if not a little agitated.

"It's a gift, my lord."

Tywin looked daggers at his wife, openly sneering his dislike as he said, "Look at me, girl." He waited for her head to turn and her eyes to meet his before continuing in his awful drawl. "What _kind_ of gift?"

His wife showed no fear in regard to his demeanour.

"I do not know, my lord," she conceded. "It only just arrived and I have yet to open it."

"You would be better served to avoid and discard strange gifts as though they were poison."

His posture and tone had not changed as Sansa pivoted slightly, reached to obtain the small card sitting on the box and read it. Sansa turned her glance toward her husband again.

"I don't know if I would call Lady Olenna a stranger, my lord."

Leaning more to her, his ever-short patience was now at an end. "No, only dangerous and conniving," he said unkindly. "I will save you the obvious strain of decision making, and forbid your acceptance of it."

As her husband spat his words he also produced his own gift, setting it atop the _poisonous_ one. Sansa could not stop from widening her eyes, raising her brow and scoffing in disbelief. One could hardly put thought to the man's ridiculousness and she was left blinking rapidly for a moment, the effort rounding out her incredulous look.

Tywin narrowed his eyes and flexed his jaw. His wife was calling him a fool in every way except words, and he hated her for it. She might as well laugh at him; he hoped she would, just to show her what kind of fury it would earn her. However, she did not, she merely looked on. And it was barely heartbeats between the time Tywin settled to reach out and physically remove her attitude and when he stopped.

His breath caught. He realized he was looking at a reflection of himself.

Sansa was mimicking him whether she knew it or not. The manner of her stare, the set of her face, her scoff, and her internal judgment - was all Tywin Lannister. His chest tightened. _In_ _repulsion? In admiration?_ And from the way Sansa's own look reworked slightly to show concern, he knew the pain of seeing himself in her was tangible on him.

He did not give them permission, but watched as his hands cupped her face and gently brushed his thumbs around her eyes and down her cheeks. Pushing out the bitterness that had no business being there.

So focused was he on her face and his hands there, that he did not realize she had made a reach of her own.

Sansa, without breaking the gaze they had established, brushed the fingertips of one hand lightly under his chin and down his throat - ending at the upper edge of his high collar. The huff of breath and aborted groan that came out of her husband made her smile inside. It was something warm after weeks of bitter cold; it was comforting and she could not deny it made her feel good. His face remained serious and grim, but his eyes smoothed to something other than the constant misgiving that had lived there since...

She swept her hand further down the front of him in a slow confident movement. When she was midway, she shifted herself entirely, his hands moving away from her face, and slid both her arms around him.

Resting her temple on his chest, she embraced him.

It was not a gesture _for_ him, it was a truth she needed _from_ him.

This was a certain type of assurance she needed from knowing she was not alone. It mattered little and less if the act was one sided, what she needed was a physical reiteration that their marriage included someone else other than her. An anchor of sorts, and if she could only feel that particular weight once every turn of the moon so be it, she would hold on while she had the chance.

He was overly tense, she could feel that in him. Even when he rested his palms against her back and pulled her closer, even when she felt his mouth rest in her hair and a slow breath leave his throat in a low tone. It was like their closeness was painful for him, and Sansa considered perhaps that was the truth of it. Perhaps she was no more than a living reminder of a mistake.

A mistake held close is a mistake that can never lead to regret.

Sansa was awash in cold again.

At the same time, Tywin began disengaging. He removed his hands and pulled hers away from him, not ungently, using the same movement to push her back to arm's length.

"You will wear what I have brought for you."

The tone he used was softer than before, but it would also brook no opposition. Tywin stroked his hands over and down the luxurious softness of his lady's long sleeves, until his fingers brushed over hers.

His touch was so welcomed and so missed, that it was like she was watching it happen from outside herself. The tingling where his palms had passed was distracting. So much so she did not notice his fingers pinch the card she still held, removing it from her grasp.

He had seduced her. A feeling she jerked out of abruptly as Tywin stood straight, turned away from her and retrieved the gift he found so offensive. Taking the parcel with him, he left her without another word.

Sansa blinked to collect herself, put herself back together. She could keep going now, better than before with the taste of safety and association she needed.

Opening the box Tywin had left, Sansa allowed the tiniest of smiles. Withing the silken recess rested a set of combs. Ornate and fine, made of predominantly of white gold and accented in Lannister gold, they had intricate waves built of the smallest rubies and diamonds she had ever seen dancing along the tops of them.

 _...As was his custom_.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

To describe such a way to break one's fast as opulent would be an understatement. Tables were piled to the point of sagging with fresh imported fruit the likes of which had long since withered under the cold and sleet of King's Landing, and dishes of hot and cold meats, vegetables, and sweet and tart desserts. It all seemed never-ending.

Looking over her meal, Sansa remembered tales of even the highest Stark lords pairing down to accommodate the famine of winter and could not help but loathe the gluttony meant to impress her. The same northern rationale that was ignored by everyone around her smacked of something foreboding. But as it was, she was not in the company of northern lords, she was with a king and his Southron constituency. Whose only notion of hunger was what they woke up with, that was quashed the moment they were upright and mobile.

Sansa chided herself a hypocrite then. _She_ didn't know what it meant to be hungry either.

They were heavy thoughts, but they did not weigh her down. In this instance, they reinforced her conviction that the North would always survive. That when someone willingly allowed themselves to suffer for the betterment of others, in any capacity, strength was innately theirs.

She thought of spring and smiled softly.

Tywin caught her eye as he waved to men deep in the wings of the ballroom and watched as two extravagantly dressed guards carried in a covered display. Once they set it down, they looked to Tywin. His nod was their cue to lift a heavy drape of red velvet and uncover a suit of armour that seemed to catch and hold every point of light in the room.

The armour was like nothing Sansa had ever seen before, and by the mutters of men and gasps of women, it was something unseen in general.

The mail was heated steel, plated in gold, and ringed so small and close that it looked woven. Every part of the outer armour that required flex and movement was scaled. But unlike the armour of the Kings Guard, these were smaller and looked like elongated coins. They were made of hardened steel and, like the mail, plated in gold. Individual components of plate - the gorget, the cuirass, the pauldrons, the greaves - were intricately embossed, the raised metal plated in gold while the rest was enameled in a deep, rich crimson. The ornate helm of a lion's head was embossed and enameled to match. In the center of the breastplate was the halved sigil of the King, the lion and the stag, encrusted in more jewels than what was being worn in attendance.

If anything was made for a king it was the armour unveiled before him.

Joffrey got to his feet, beaming a look of satisfaction from first his mother the to his grandfather. The gift was one to his liking, and Sansa could understand why. But as the King approached the display to bask in his finery and gloat in his prestige, his features took a downturn and his eyes narrowed. Edging his face even closer, Joffrey seemed to be scrutinizing the jeweled ornaments in the breast plate.

Without a word, he turned back to the table, picked up the large knife he was using to dine, and swung around again facing the armour. With the same proximity and scrutiny used prior, he started digging and chipping at the craftsmanship.

Seemingly thwarted by the task, the King spun to his grandfather, his face distorted in objection.

"You give me _this_?" he asked, incredulousness tilting to a peevish whine.

Joffrey was picking the point of his knife at a tiny accent of grey metal between the black gems that made up the stag. Sansa could only conclude that the armourist used white gold to hold them, instead of its yellow counterpart - as was used in the lion and every other embellishment.

Tywin addressed the petulant King, intoned with overt tact and poise. "That is _gold_ , Your Gra-"

"This is _not_ gold!" Joffrey presented the kind of affront one would normally reserve for the greatest of insults, screeching, "This is _bastard gold_! Why would you think to gift your King with lesser gold, made for lesser people?" His eyes struck directly at Sansa for effect.

Sansa could hear the faint strain of her husband's doublet, the material and seams protesting the tightening of him tensing within it. His voice, however, carried nothing of the kind.

"It's not the plate that makes a warrior, it's the man who wears it, _Your Grace_."

The growl Tywin produced was equal parts annoyance and warning, and it silenced the room. It also caused the King to visibly startle.

"Taking pride in what you've been gifted, to your liking or not, will garner you respect, _Your Grace_. Carelessly mar those things, and it will only earn you scorn."

Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Joffrey had heeded his grandfather's ire, but his ornery tirade was now redirected at her.

The King again glowered at Sansa, curled his lip in disgust, pointed his knife at directly at her heart and seethed, " _You_ did this, didn't you?"

Sansa quickly weighed her options and made her decision by determining the most likely outcome.

She stood.

"Yes, Your Grace," she began. "I beg you forgive my ignorance, the addition was made at my request." Sansa lowered her eyes and bowed her head in submission to the King. "I cared only for aesthetics and not the implications."

Joffrey needed a target, and by foolishly looking for one in Tywin he was left wanting. Sansa's gamble was to give him what he sought, an avenue for his fury, in an effort to sate him. Which in turn would save the rest in attendance from having his cruelty inflicted on them.

The King scoffed bitterly at his _grandmother_ in one breath _,_ then all but forgot about her and the armour both in the next. His distraction further assisted by Lady Margaery gathering his attention with flattering words, an approving smile and a request to continue the procession of gifts.

Unfortunately, Sansa's own efforts were for naught. Joffrey would find it in himself to be cruel to those he despised regardless of the words or wealth laid before him, and she could only watch helplessly as Tyrion became his next focus. It pained her that Tywin observed the scene unfold without care or interest. His face was completely impassive, but she could see in his eyes a blaze of unparalleled hate toward his son.

Sansa lowered her gaze from the display of ignorance and animosity in front of her, but caught movement in her peripheral.

Lord Tywin wrapped his hand around hers and leaned in to catch her ear. She smiled, even when the pressure on her hand verged on pain, and tilted her head to allow him to speak closely. Her face was turned toward the room, her smile remained flawless - as was expected from a wife listening to the intimate words of her husband.

Tywin squeezed tighter and growled low, agitated, "I _do not_ need rescuing, _my lady_."

When he brought his solemn face around to hers, his wife was still smiling, almost thoughtfully. She jutted her chin at him, a silent indication that she wanted to speak to him in the same manner. Tywin narrowed his eyes and flexed his jaw in annoyance, but acquiesced nonetheless.

It was now Tywin who faced the room as Sansa settled her lips next to the shell of his ear and spoke in a tone that was nothing if not his own.

"The only rescue I performed, my lord, was that of a beautiful gift from unnecessary destruction."

 _A reflection of himself._

At that, the old lion felt her thumb work in delicate little circles over his. A motion and act that was usually _his_ toward _her,_ but the effect was the same and Tywin felt himself relax a fraction - his muscles lost some of their tension, his breathing deepened, and his grip on her reverted to something more to the edge of pleasant.

When they turned their attention back to the great dining hall, their conversation at an end, Tywin did not release his easy hold on Sansa's hand, but instead tugged gently to rest them both on his thigh for the duration.

...

..

.


	13. Winter II

..

..

.

Stood at the side of Lord Tywin prior to being ushered into the Grand Hall to partake in the feast celebrating the union of King Joffrey Baratheon and Queen Margaery Tyrell, Lady Sansa smiled politely at, spoke to, and mingled with all manner of Lords and Ladies, Magistrates and other dignitaries from across Westeros and the Free Cities.

It had only been hours gone since she and her husband had wordlessly made their way to their personal chambers after the binding ceremony. Through the duration of which, Tywin had chosen to affix a look of placid disinterest to everything in general while ignoring her altogether. Again. That wasn't to say he was not currently obliging her, dipping his head to hear her when she wished to speak, but he had yet to bother responding or initiate conversation himself. Not since they broke their fast.

Since he held her hand.

The gist was hardly vague and in the end she stopped trying. They had dressed in silence and remained that way when he offered his arm as they walked to the antechamber prior to the feast. However, instead withering under the treatment of Lord Tywin, locking herself away inside her armour, Sansa chose to actively observe her environment and proactively participate in accordance to her duty as the wife of Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King.

The only indication Tywin gave that she had earned even the slightest bit of his attention was when she was speaking with Prince Oberyn - laughing at his predictable, practiced charm and truly inappropriate banter. Only then had she felt her husband's hand curl around her waist even though the rest of him remained pointed away, speaking with a brightly dressed Braavosi.

Glancing the unsubtle gesture, the charming prince leaned in close enough to breathe her air, and drawled, "Lions are protective, it seems."

"And wolves mate for life, my lord," Sansa said, employing her very own variety of charm.

At that the Red Viper straightened, took a step back, smiled even wider and produced a laugh that was impossible not to reciprocate. Sansa was blushing fiercely at his display, something like bashfulness, and it only worked to her advantage when the coy prince ended his game. Although another seemed to start anew as he lifted her hand and kissed it in a way that made her blush even harder, leaving his lips to linger on her skin.

" _My lady_ ," he whispered. Prince Oberyn nodded then, dipped to an exaggerated bow, then made his way back to a beautiful woman who was smiling at Sansa in the exact same manner the Dornish man had.

Sansa blinked through her perplexity straight to realization; Tyrion's company meant acquiring an education every time his bawdy humour confused her. Behaviour she had once addressed in embarrassment was now looked at with an air of entertainment and inquiry, but she had no time to think beyond understanding. Still basking in the intrinsic allure of the Prince and his consort she felt Tywin draw her in snugly to his side, and delighted in her natural fit there. And when she smiled her contentment up at her husband, Sansa immediately ate her joy.

He was looking at her as if his intent were to kill. Although she could not determine _whom,_ precisely.

After only a moment Lady Lannister snapped out of her concern and once again turned to the crowd wearing an approachable smile. For all to see she looked impeccable next to her equally impeccable husband. They were indeed a force, even without words or a measure of warmth, and _that_ truth was undeniable.

Upon studying the room, Sansa noticed a definite lack of northern representation, but it was to be expected. Stannis Baratheon was making stability impossible for Lord Bolton and his banners. Even though the North was once again in the better graces of regency, Sansa was not at all upset that they were too busy being besieged by snow and another King to allow their attendance.

 _Spring.._.

With an extravagant flourish of opening doors and the broad sound of announcing horns, those who had been waiting were finally ushered into the hall to begin the celebratory feast. Much like the meal at her own wedding this one consisted of more courses than Sansa had interest or appetite for and a never-ending procession of people garnering for Lord Tywin's favour.

Although, _unlike_ their own wedding more than enough were seeking her favour as well. In Sansa's opinion, another purposeful change was in seating Tyrion well away from her. Which despite the pomp, made even a royal feast seem rather dull. Her only reprieve was when he would casually stroll by and they would have reason to speak - however briefly, so as not to gain the attention of Lord Tywin.

Inevitably, as is what happens when wine is preferred over actual sustenance, it wasn't long before Sansa began to notice Tyrion's periodic stops were a physical depiction of his elevating inebriation. One such occasion Sansa watched her _son_ approach with a gait that could only be called a toddle. While she internally thanked him for being the reason for dismissing a thoroughly drunken Tyroshi from her presence, she frowned at his sudden seriousness and apparent indifference toward her as he continued on his wobbly journey. Moments later, the Tyroshi abruptly left as well.

She knew at that point the man seated beside her had made his presence known.

Sansa made no effort to turn in his direction, but when she felt a familiar warmth about her ear and neck, her eyes closed without the benefit of her mind's say-so. Tywin's voice rattled a path through her, from ear to abdomen, and Sansa found the visceral confirmation of his body next to hers was something sorely needed. So unexpected was that cut of truth, she let out a deep lungful of air and felt the flesh at her nape prickle.

"Come, my lady."

When Sansa finally blinked her eyes open she found her husband standing in front her, offering his hand. Gathering herself she was able to reply in a voice that completely contrasted her tingling insides.

"Of course, my lord."

Tywin cupped her fingers lightly against his palm and helped her to her feet, then felt those fingers slide into place over his forearm. He did not know why he requested her company, and it was only as they were walking from the dais that he realized he had to make a decision as to where they were going and what they would do once there.

He was only mildly imbibing, but perhaps the small amount of wine was allowing another part of him to dictate his actions...

No matter.

He chose a place at the far end of the room, near the servant's entrance. There, in the recess beside the door, tucked behind heavy curtains resided a small set of doors leading to a proportionately small balcony. The doors were in place to exchange air and help maintain temperature within the grand chamber when the amount of people talking influenced the amount of hot air being produced. And, as Tywin flicked his serious glare around the endless sea of those in attendance, he knew the doors would most certainly be open.

Her husband held back the thick drapery as an invitation for her to proceed. She did, and found a lovely reprieve. Sansa stepped out onto a balcony that would fit no more than six people and held a view of lower rooftops on the east side of the castle grounds. Yet, what she noticed foremost was the quiet. Once the curtain fell back into place, the humming volume of the festivities inside was reduced to almost nothing. Although what was most pleasant to Sansa, what prompted her to look out and lean on the railing, was the refreshing air. It was well into the evening and it cooled her instantly. The cold was dry and she smiled to see random flakes of snow swirling in front of her, glowing in the light from the large windows above her, tiny glints of radiance in an otherwise unremarkable night.

The wintry atmosphere also showcased the error of leaving her cloak within. As though on cue, Sansa found herself embraced on either side by the soft fur interior of her husband's cloak, feeling the heat of him at her back. Tucking the rich fabric and fur around her more securely, Sansa stood as close as she could to Tywin without touching him. For a queer moment feeling as hesitant as she had been on her own wedding night.

Not so queer, she considered further. He had reverted to being silent again - two words decidedly a torrent for him - and it only piqued her curiosity as to why he had wished her join him in the first place...

... _determining her worth as a wife unable to provide the heir he needed_...

Swallowing hard, Sansa tried to deliberate the surfacing dread that was uncapped while unraveling a simple mystery. Using only her eyes, she peered over the edge of the railing. The fall was far too short and wouldn't necessarily kill her. She then concentrated on any movement behind her that would indicate a strike, or any noise that might signify a blade...

There was nothing.

The pleasantness she felt in the quiet and the weather faded quickly. Equally quick she made up her mind to turn and face him. If she was to suffer violence or death or hatred of some kind she was going to do so head-long - as she had always been forced to in the past.

Looking up she could see him clearly, the illumination from the castle around them no less radiant on skin as it was on snowflakes. He was peering out over her head, stern in his way, but his eyes held a softness she could not be sure was simply a trick of the light. When Tywin looked down at her though, his face became pitched in shadows. No longer could she see his eyes, but what she could see plain like daylight was the flex and movement of his jaw along the edges of his silhouette. Which meant he was either about to speak... Or that he was thoroughly livid.

Her breath quickened when she felt his fingers brush and drape around her throat; she closed her eyes and prepared herself for what might be her final moments. His fingers tightened, but only a fraction, and she felt warm breath on her skin again.

Her own hitched in her throat.

What could have been a word or a growl from her husband was hacked to an abrupt end by sharp piercing screams emanating from the other side of the curtain.

She was cold immediately and to the bone when Tywin spun away from her.

The sound of him unsheathing his sword was made louder by the quiet of the balcony and caused her to flatten against the railing. He swung the curtains aside and the noise of panic engulfed her, that sound itself a cause for alarm. She could see him glance around methodically, then speak to the guards that had followed them. It was only a matter of heartbeats before he rounded back outside to her, and as he did so the curtain fell closed once more - taking the with it the light and the majority of the chaos.

Sansa felt him more than anything, his face no more than darkness now. His hand cupped her jaw and pulled her cheek into his side whiskers. His mouth was next to her ear and his voice was calm, but hurried.

"Guards will take you back. Listen." He pulled her in even tighter. "Talk to no one. Stop for no one. Keep moving until you are inside our apartments. Bar the door and tell Lyol the King is dead." He held her impossibly close then, his voice almost urgent, and hissed, "Do you _understand_?"

She was stunned, struggling to push together the right set of words.

Tywin could not wait, he shook the hand that was on her, roaring in her ear, " _Sansa_?! Do you _understand_?!"

"Yes, I... Tywin, yes... I understand..." Her shaky words tumbled out on their own.

He spun around again, sword at ready out in front, his free hand extended back gripping and ripping a hold on the tight fabric at the middle of her gown. Lord Tywin pulled her along, keeping her right behind him until they were past the curtain and standing in the bedlam of the ballroom. The first thing Sansa heard was Cersei screaming for her father, the next was the clank and rush of armour surrounding her.

There were eight men wearing Lannister red, swords drawn, facing out on every side of her. She looked at Tywin and drew strength from the man who stood strong amongst it all like a boulder in a raging river.

Lady Lannister nodded to her husband.

" _Go,_ " he barked at the lead sentry.

Watching his wife until she disappeared through the doors, disrupting the great streams of people flowing out with her, Lord Tywin turned and walked back toward the dais.

The Great Lion took control.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa found herself truly frightened when she was awoken both suddenly and unpleasantly.

She had tried to stay awake and wait for her husband to return, but as the minutes drifted to hours she fell asleep before the fire in the sitting room and did not protest when she was gently herded to bed by her handmaid.

It was the deadliest hour of night and not only had the fire died in the small hearth in her separate bedchamber, but the crash of noise from the sitting room seemed louder inside the smaller room. She wriggled further under the coverings and furs and kept her wide eyes on the door she could hardly see.

Nothing of a physical nature made its way inside, but the sporadic destruction from the other room was deafening. When the more robust crashing subsided, Sansa could hear angry muffled words and periodic cursing.

It wasn't curiosity that motivated her to leave the warmth and relative safety of her bed, to don her robe and slippers and venture into the room that held her husband, it was duty. Regardless of the reasons why, Lord Tywin was raining terror onto himself and it was her responsibility to be there, to ease his suffering. To even withstand it for him, and Lady Sansa was more than confident she could do all of those things.

Sansa padded softly through the room walking around and over pages, books, splinters of wood and broken glass, until she was standing at one end of the ornate bench looking at the profile of her husband. He was sat on the floor, his back against the large piece of furniture, legs stretched out in front of him surrounded by wreckage and staring into the fire. There was no immediate smell of wine and she knew his actions had been unleashed solely out of fury.

She also knew that her husband was not a grandfather grieving the loss of his grandson, nor was he a subject grieving the loss of their king. He was an engineer of outcomes, and what happened that night was _not_ of his doing.

Her husband had been crossed and slighted earning his conscience yet one more grudge and angle of suspicion, earning his endgame yet one more hurdle and redirection. She could only assume - _hope -_ that her personal deficiencies were now less of a priority and perhaps he would not hate her to such a degree.

Tywin could see his wife in his peripheral. He could see her make a tentative step toward him and his ire spoke on his behalf.

He pointed his finger at her with a force matching his bellow. "Don't you _dare_ touch me!"

Sansa's body startled but the rest of her remained calm, moving no further than where she had stepped. Instead of turning to leave she found herself slowly, methodically clearing debris from the bench, and once a spot was open sat and tucked her feet up and against her for warmth.

She waited. Sansa spoke not one word.

In the flickering firelight she watched Tywin's eyes shift left then right in tiny increments, recalculating and re-channeling information and scenarios. He was wheels and gears working in flesh and, despite the circumstances, it was fascinating to witness.

She had touched on it before as she waited initially, that she felt more for Tywin's loss of control than she did for the loss of Joffrey's life. It was callous and so outside the comfort of who she knew she was, but she simply could not will herself to care. Sansa felt a certain kind of freedom at the death of this king. As though a heavy cloak had been lifted, and while the heft of it being gone was a relief, it did nothing else. It was simply a burden no longer there.

Her contemplation was interrupted by light circles being rubbed on the top of her foot.

Looking toward the connection, she could see Tywin had casually draped his arm over the length of the thickly padded bench and his hand had come to rest on her slippered foot. He was not looking at her, the fire still held his attention, but his fingers were curled around her ankle as his thumb worked a steady rhythm.

Another cog in the mechanism that was Tywin Lannister.

When his thumb stopped moving, Sansa took the chance and slipped her own fingers over his; he was still looking away, but deftly twined his own in and around them. Ever so slowly, Sansa slid her feet off the sofa, her hand still in his and stood, taking the few steps needed to be next to him.

His vision stayed on the wisping oranges, yellows, and reds in the hearth. But when he felt his wife's knee and thigh sway into is upper flank and chest, followed by the backs of her delicate fingers brushing from his temple to his jaw, he had no other option than to close his eyes and let her.

She gently untangled their fingers and was careful to drape his arm on the sofa again.

He could smell her, sweet and citrus and earthy. His eyes were closed, his body was at ease, and it was the calm of her scent that kept them that way. Even when he felt her kneel astride his thighs; even when he felt her fingers and palms manipulate his neck and jaw to tilt his head back; even when her lips came to rest over his - not kissing him, just resting there - he let her.

Her breath was a warm blanket and her body was the bed he wanted to sleep in for a thousand years. Her fingertips were like butterflies, smoothing the lines and creases in his brow, pushing out the trouble and replacing it with her serenity. He could see, in his mind, the events of the night getting further away, and instead of standing in blackness he saw the edges going white.

Every touch and caress Sansa applied to him was preceded with a pause. There was no real hesitation in her hands, more like she was silently asking approval to continue.

There was no protest in him, not even the tension she had felt earlier that day. He was in a pliable state and she wanted nothing more than to mould him into what she needed in that moment - _what they both needed_.

Moving her lips away and leaning back slightly, Sansa lightly swept her fingertips over his brow, down his cheeks, around the back of his neck and forward to the front. His eyes remained closed, but he let out a deep breath and angled his head back further, exposing more of his throat to her.

She knew that part of him intimately. It was the part of him she would focus on when they were initially wed, when she could not hold his gaze. It was the part of him she grew to be eye level with. It was the part of him that she would watch stretched out above her, rocking with her in a bodily rhythm when they would lay together.

She found it beautiful and familiar.

He felt the fastenings of his collar being worked open, then there was a press of warm softness and a light suction as the warmth pulled away. The white that _was_ at the edges of Tywins mind now formed a solid wall of heat and arousal.

Every time Sansa placed her lips on the stubble-roughened skin in front of her a steady tremor would vibrate through them. There was no noise, just the feeling, and she could not stop the smile her mouth spread on him.

Tywin was purring. There was nothing else she could compare it to and no other way she wanted to define it.

It made her happy.

It was a bright point in weeks of darkness. She leaned into him even more and tucked her face against his day's growth of beard, absorbed his inner music and embraced him for a second time. And this time, when his hands found her back and held her close, she could feel his fingers digging in - trying for greater purchase.

They stayed still and close for long minutes, neither moving nor speaking.

After a time, his wife stirred in his arms and spoke in a voice that sounded like it came from within his own mind.

" _Tywin_..."

When he brought his head forward again and opened his eyes to focus, he thought perhaps he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. She was made of the glow from the fire, it surrounded her and she lived within it. He had to touch his fingers to her neck and face just to prove his assumption false.

Sansa thought he looked as though he was in one of his walking-dreams, but his eyes were clear and focused. The flecks of gold inlaid in the green were dancing with the flames behind her, and she smiled at the fierce grace in front of her. She swayed back, out of his touch, off his lap and stood, still smiling down at her husband. Wordlessly asking him to follow her.

He did. Slowly. But for no other reason than his age was charging a revolt against the vertical climb.

Once at full height, Tywin looked to Sansa. Her kind smile was still there and her arm was extended, offering him her hand. He bit back his perpetual suspicion, gave his hand over, watching her head turn and felt her body pull him to their bedchamber.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She undressed him slowly, one article of clothing at a time, his only help was when she would lift his arms or tug an indication to raise his foot - like one would to shoe a horse. By the time he was naked in front of her, he was also incredibly hard.

He stood in wait, watching her calculate and decide every movement she made.

 _So beautiful_.

When she backed away a few paces, Tywin assumed it was to further consider her actions toward him, but when she started removing her own clothing his cock jumped for every garment that fell until she was equally bare. He was mesmerized by her breasts rising and falling, as high and deep as her breathing dictated. Tywin remained mesmerized when they approached him, and especially when they pushed against his body. Without a barrier between their skin, the warmth felt earlier was now fully ignited.

"Turn around, Sansa," he said, his voice hushed and foggy.

She peered at him through heavy lids and turned her back to him as she was bade. Tywin pulled her back and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in the thick auburn in front of him, growling in it when her arse churned back on the hard cock nestled against it.

Tywin walked them to the side of the bed and his wife instinctively laid the top half of her body on the plush coverings, her feet on the floor between his. He bent himself over her, not on her, covering her body. He just wanted to feel her, feel himself against her. He moved her hair aside and savoured the skin of her neck. On his tongue her taste worked the same as his other senses - she calmed him.

Tywin moved his head and rested his forehead between the blades of her shoulders, let his hips roll lazily, and let his fingers wander. As with any time his touch came in contact with the raised proof of cruelty on her back, his jaw clenched.

Her scars were a testament of someone enduring an effort to kill them. Whipping for the sake of correction was always found on flanks and thighs and the backside. His wife carried marks down her spine and some at the base of her rib cage. These are only inflicted for the purpose of damage and death, out of hate and malice. He could not imagine the pain she had suffered because of it.

 _Sansa came back ever resilient_.

It would be nice to wish that Sansa had no marks, no scars, and was allowed to live as the happy child that left her home, but Tywin knew if that were the case the woman cooing and moaning softly under him would be a completely different entity - and he could not imagine _that_ either.

Standing up, Tywin took in the sight of his wife bent and ready for him and his mind started to blur.

Filthy and erotic were the wet lines of desire the tip of his cock drew over the backs of her thighs and up over her arse. He was leaking in anticipation and his need was now in command. He gently led his wife to straighten upright again, then turned her toward him. He needed to taste her mouth, and by the urgent reply to is kiss it was a need of his wife as well.

She kissed him so hard and so deep Tywin felt as though she were beckoning his life right from its source - and found, in that moment, he would surely give it. When she pulled away, he cupped her face to prevent her from straying far. The corner of his lips twitched at the sight of her mouth rubbed red from the coarseness of his skin.

It became her.

Tywin let his hands drift down her neck, over her collar to her breasts where he kneaded and teased her nipples to hardened points, and reveled in her body's buck at their sensitivity. It was as he was enjoying her breasts, holding and cupping their weight that his mind acted on its own and thought of the _other_.

Sansa watched his face as his hands moved from her breasts, one settled on her hip and the other came to rest on her belly. His eyes were sad, but only for a heartbeat, then he looked at her directly. She couldn't confidently place his emotion, but she knew well it was made of neither hate nor anger. She put her own hand over his - it was petting little circles where a babe would grow - and pulled away from him, tugging his hand as she went until they were both comfortably situated on their bed.

He looked down at the loveliness beneath him and entered her slowly, savouring the heat and slick tightness he had been away from for what felt like a lifetime.

 _For far too long_.

At the same time he filled her, he felt her fingernails bite into his shoulders and heard what sounded like a pained hitch in her breathing. Tywin immediately brought his face around to hers and saw the tears making their way down her temples and into her hair. He pulled out and kept looking at her, but she would not hold his gaze, just kept blinking out fresh tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely.

Tywin frowned at his wife and when he spoke, it was with a tone of impatience. "Am I hurting you?"

Sansa shook her head, holding back the sobs that were struggling for release, and again choked out, " _I'm sorry_."

Tywin kept his weight on his elbows and crawled up on his knees, her thighs spreading wide and slack as he went. His arms encircled her head, his hands rested in her hair at her crown - he was caging her body with his.

" _Why_ are you sorry, Sansa?" He said it as carefully as he could.

She blinked her sad, worried eyes at him then and could not hold back the breathy sob that preceded her words.

"Because, I _killed him_."

Tywin looked at her and felt a stab of absolute dread. His mind flashed with images of claw marks on Joffrey's throat and his ears rang with Cersei's accusations. Tywin was trying very hard not to give in to the anger that was simmering just below the surface.

His face was stony, his eyes were livid, and his hands were slowly fisting in her hair. " _Who_ did you _kill_?" he seethed.

Tywin tried to recount their evening, trying to single out a time when she would have the opportunity to become a gods-damned _assassin_. He also started considering the best course of action. He could not allow this kind of scandal, he simply _could not._ His attention then focused on her long pale throat and how he could see her life pulse in it, and how he had always sought comfort there, and how he had reveled in the taste of that beautiful, delicate expanse...

Tywin did not realize but he had started breathing faster, his heart was racing to the point of discomfort. A sudden wave of cold resolve washed down him, taking with it whatever intentions he was considering.

He loosened his grip and started stroking his thumbs in her hair, rasping low, " _Who_?"

Sansa looked her husband squarely in the eyes. Eyes that were usually calm, the ones that now flickered in anger, and she sobbed unbidden, "The _baby_."

Tywin forcefully let out the breath trapped in his lungs and felt his chest ache. He dropped his forehead to rest between her breasts and tried to gather himself, reassemble his composure.

"I know you're angry... with me..." she cried softly.

Tywin snapped his head up and stared at his wife with an intensity she thought _looked_ like anger.

" _No_ ," he croaked out. "Not _angry_... not _the babe_..." The last parts were a mumbled whisper as his mind cycled through the images of her pale face bathed in a cold sweat, her body bleeding next to him.

 _Wave after wave of blood_.

It was all he would give her. Her husband would divulge no more than those few words, leaving Sansa to piece his meaning together herself. She did though. Looking up at him, his expression now recognized as concern and worry, the flex in his jaw holding back something other than annoyance, his eyes staring straight at her but lost all the same.

Blinking her tears away and sniffling in tiny hitches, Sansa moved one hand up and gently placed her fingertips on his lips. She was not even sure of the gesture's meaning herself, perhaps it was to believe that he wasn't angry with her for failing him. Perhaps it was to ensure she interpreted him correctly and needed to do so by touching where the words had come from.

Tywin closed his eyes, inhaled slow and deep through his nose and leaned his mouth into her fingers.

It was neither a confirmation nor declaration, but it was real.

Sansa brought her other hand around to the back of his neck and tugged him down to her. He flattened himself over her again, and when he felt her fingers move from his lips to his nape as well he burrowed his face in the sweet curve of porcelain that defined where her shoulder met her neck.

The weight of him on her was the kind of crush that was welcomed. It was commanding and felt safe. The warmth it generated was secondary to the claim it had on her.

She felt one of his hands move from the top of her head, trace its way down her body and wriggle to a spot beneath her, just above her arse on her lower back.

When his wife danced patterns with her fingertips down and over his neck, Tywin let go of his tightly coiled inner strain and responded by grinding himself into her. It was an effort to relieve her tension as well; one that was determined successful by the way Sansa rocked her hips slowly.

The white-hot pool of arousal and desire once again stirred between them.

They bedded slowly that night, each chasing the others monster away.

Every touch she laid upon him was replied with his lips being placed upon her. Every sigh was answered with a moan, and every movement helped to build a crescendo. They were as close as they could be to one another, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist and back, his hands still holding her crown and her lower back. Neither made the effort - nor wanted - to create distance.

These moments were hard-fought treasures.

For each of them, these were different instances: beauty amongst horror, peace amongst chaos. However, for the individuality both Lord and Lady Lannister took from their intimacy, it was the fact that it was shared that made it extraordinary.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin was resting, his eyes drifting closed, one hand propped behind his head, the other settled in the softness of skin on Sansa's hip and backside. The corner of his mouth twitched every time his fingers tickled her with the patterns they were drawing.

She was sprawled to the middle of his chest, a riot of auburn engulfing his torso almost entirely. It was the best way to be burned alive, he thought. It was a warmth that also made him drowsy.

"Do you think she cursed me?"

Her despair had long since left and her subtle hardness was back in place, dictating her emotions. It wasn't a vague question, sadly. Tywin knew what she was referring to immediately - whether or not her mother's wishes had become truth.

"No." It was not what he wanted to talk about, but it _had_ to be addressed - as was evident by her gross misinterpretation of his actions. "The healthiest of women bleed out babes only to carry successfully."

His voice was sober, but distant.

"Did Lady Joanna?"

Sansa was fiddling her own patterns into the hair on his stomach. She felt the slight hiccup in her husband and knew she had made him wince.

"Yes," he said. He didn't sound distressed in the slightest. "Both before and after she bore twins."

Sansa was just about to ask another question or make another statement when he cut her off after the first syllable.

" _Enough_. Sleep." He gripped her hip and backside tighter then took a deep breath and tried not to sound as exhausted as he truly was. "Please."

Sansa nodded into his chest before pushing herself somewhat upright. Reaching long, she pulled various coverings toward them, where Tywin took over when they were within his own reach. He took care to cover her as she rested back to the position she as in, on top of him.

It would do. She would keep him warm, he would not turn her away again.

He took another deep breath. It was all the death in conjunction with his family he had a mind for that night. The following days and moons would surely prove their own challenges in that regard.

The first of which would be informing his wife of Tyrion's arrest.

...

..

.


	14. Winter III

...

..

.

Every accusation thrown, every witness so obviously bought and paid for were painful to experience. Sansa felt as though she were living the frustration Tyrion refused to show and absorbing the hate his father was displaying openly. It was tangibly affecting her, draining her completely and sometimes driving her to physical illness.

To clear her mind she had taken to bundling against the bitter winds and walking the battlements topping the Tower of the Hand. It had the added reward of being away from the excruciating drama below… and allowed her to plan.

Tywin wanted Tyrion to take the Black in order to save House Lannister the embarrassment of an execution.

 _Ridiculous_.

However, the more she thought about it, that ridiculousness could very well work to her advantage. If Tyrion were to make it to the North she might have a better chance to use her name - _her old name_ , she amended - and garner his freedom on the road to the Wall. Jon was another angle. They were never close, and he would probably have little to no use of her begging for favour, but as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch surely he would find more need and use of gold than the pledge of one man - _one half of a man_ , she once again amended.

She would have no hope of freeing Tyrion from King's Landing as she did her mother. Lord Tywin had been keeping her close, requiring her presence for each moment of trial. He took every meal with her, worked almost exclusively within arm's length and kept her by his side regardless of the messengers or meetings that had become _his_ urgency since the death of the boy-king and the crowning of the child-king.

In truth, so much time together had earned him her worry. His work ethic reminded her of a warhorse - born and bred to outlast, outmaneuver and outmatch all other horses. But even the most remarkable of horses will die mid-stride if not allowed to rest. She had taken to feigning the want of intimacy in order to get him to bed. Once there, doing no more than kissing and touching him, she would rub her fingers and hands against his tense muscles until he succumbed to sleep.

The not-quite-consequence of her ruse had been the more than a few times she had woken up to him pleasuring her and grumbling about _knowing her game_. In those times - she smiled to herself at the thought - Sansa feigned absolutely nothing.

Breathing deep the cold, crisp air, Sansa inhaled until her chest hurt and her teeth ached. This pain was more a comfort. It felt like home.

The rattle and clank of armour took her from her musings, the frozen joints and points of movement making the metal yawn and protest more than usual. Scarcely turning her head toward the sound, she first saw a white cloak and her body tingled as the heat she was conserving drained. It was a reaction she could not will herself out of even when she recognized the golden hair and the equally golden hand, but she hid it well, returning her focus to the view of King's Landing.

Ser Jaime did not acknowledge her distress. He came to a stop near her side and instead spoke with a voice like his father's. The exception being that the son wore a smile so forced that it confirmed to Sansa every reason why her husband rarely, if ever, trusted them.

"My lady," he began. Even a simple greeting from him sounded like a brittle attempt at sincerity.

Sansa did not know Ser Jaime prior to his return, prior to his injury, beyond his name and cursory introductions when she was betrothed to Joffrey. They spoke only briefly throughout the trial, never more than a few words or sentences, normally when Tywin had instructed him to be an escort to his wife. What they _did_ know of each other, the primary element that allowed them to talk at all, was their united opinion of Tyrion's innocence.

She was confident in her assumption it was for that reason he sought her out.

"Ser Jaime," she replied still looking out over the city. Yet, however distracted her concentration seemed, her address was polite.

He stepped closer, prompting Sansa to not only look at him but take an unconscious side-step further away, providing a distance adhering to what she felt was decent. They may have been about to speak on a matter close to her heart, but Ser Jaime did not necessarily have her trust - at least not outside conversations pertaining his brother. Not that she trusted _anyone_ outside of a few people who could be counted with less than the fingers on one hand...

Sansa glanced at the golden hand hanging heavy at the knight's side and suffered an absurd cut of guilt. As though her thoughts were spoken out loud, she shook her head at the foolishness in her.

Ser Jaime sighed loudly at her display and spoke over her muddled attention. "This is a convenient ploy, my lady," he offered, glancing around the battlements with a type of disgust that seemed naturally bred into him.

Their unknown time constraints meant he would be getting straight to the point and turned serious then. Such an effect painted on Ser Jaime gave Sansa a low-strung anxious feeling.

"Do you really think my father will allow Tyrion to take the black? Even if that is what he chooses?"

Her brow pinched at Ser Jaime's puzzle of words as her jaw clenched and she looked away to fully absorb his allusion. Sansa then suitably reprimanded herself for not anticipating that approach herself.

 _Bloody fool_.

Any plans she secured would be for naught if Tyrion did not make it to the North in the first place. She spoke as her thoughts lingered on the impossible.

"Do you really think..."

Sansa did not have to finish for Jaime to know she did not want to believe his father would rid himself of his youngest son through a mishap on the journey north.

 _If not the father, tha_ _n the sister._

Jaime nodded his affirmation to her and watched as it made her swallow hard. Her eyes held a saddness, he could see that plainly, and found he did not like it.

But they had no time for sentimentality.

"You must talk to my father, Lady Sansa."

He could have been pleading if he did not revert back to looking so arrogantly smug.

She was brought out of her thoughts and immediately narrowed her eyes at Ser Jaime. This was what she was waiting for: the favour, the pledge, the want, no different than those who begged for it at court. An avenue to Lord Tywin through his lady wife.

"You can't think Lord Tywin will care for my opinion in _this_ matter."

Her voice was as icy as the weather they were standing in. She did not owe this man anything, their only connection was their mutual care for Tyrion.

The Kingslayer abandoned whatever humour he was clinging to, his face shifted to solemn remembrance and he spoke softly, like a young boy.

"I don't remember much about my mother." His eyes flicked a glance over her head. "Tiny details here and there." Shifting his weight from foot to foot he reaffirmed his boyish demeanour, and said, "The occasional scene from my childhood."

Ser Jaime wore a smile then that was more thoughtful than mocking, and Sansa conceded that it was this kind of seriousness that made the golden knight a character straight out of the songs.

As though her thoughts were brightly coloured illustrations, Ser Jaime widened the smile she liked and continued, "What I _do_ recall, quite vividly in fact," his smile faltered, yet his thoughtful look deepened, "is the way my father looked at her."

It was almost a whisper.

It almost broke her heart.

Sansa waited for him to continue. He looked at her with her husband's eyes, with facial features that could have been Tywin's own decades ago, with a smile she had to imagine lived in the Great Lion somewhere.

"He looks at _you_ the same way." Jaime's eyes flashed a look of melancholy, then, just as fast, a look of something else. Admiration perhaps. Maybe hatred.

Jaime Lannister, like everyone else Sansa had met in the South - since she was forced to look at people with better eyes than she had in the North - guarded his truth behind a mask. Although his, in Sansa's opinion, was one of the flimsier she had seen. However, as she considered the man further, it seemed perhaps that after his ordeal he was becoming a different version of himself. And much like her own journey, even since she was first married, this was simply one stage of the transition.

She smiled kindly at him.

There were no more words between the knight and the lady, the sound of approaching hardened leather soles, made harder by the freezing temperature, caught their attention.

She knew the point Jaime was making, she understood the comparison. She also knew he was right, she had the best and most advantageous opportunity to speak and to be heard by Lord Tywin.

She had both a duty and a debt to Tyrion to try.

Sansa kept her smile and let her focus drift to the figure emerging behind Ser Jaime.

Tywin did not return her smile. He never did, not truly, but she liked the way his eyes lost some of their rigidity when he looked at her. _Mayhaps that was the way he looked at Lady Joanna_ , she smiled brighter toward her husband at the thought.

"Jaime." Tywin either failed to notice, or merely didn't care that the two people he walked amongst may have been in conversation, continuing, "King Tommen is sitting court. I want you there as well."

Jaime reapplied his arrogant smile and turned to his father. "Yes, a lion to bolster a kitten. Of course."

Tywin did not address his son's twaddle with words. His look, however, seethed his castigation.

With a horrendously exaggerated turn and bow, Jaime excused himself from Sansa's presence then pivoted on his heels and drawled long and sarcastically as he passed his father, "Hear me roar..."

Sansa wore a look of slightly grim embarrassment as she watched the Lord Commander leave. When he was gone, she turned to view the city once more.

Tywin watched her throughout. Watched her response to the _Young_ Lion, looking for something, anything, but finding nothing.

"And what did my son want?"

Sansa turned her head toward her husband, her look now pensive.

"He only just joined me when you arrived." It was almost the truth. Though, by the stony resolve in his eyes, it was not enough information for Lord Tywin. "Looking for air, I suppose." Her words fell flat as she regarded the city once more.

He scoffed at her, "I'm _sure_."

Tywin observed her further. The winter sun made her squint, it also made the blue of her eyes lighten to grey.

 _From Tully to Stark with an icy change in the weather_. _Fitting_. But it was her hands that caught his true attention. He was sure they were warm in the gloves he had had crafted for her as they rested, almost floated, on the cold stone in front of her. He did not know what prompted him to place his own gloved hand beside hers, but he did. It was large in comparison, long and delicate to scale.

He scoffed again, this time at his own asinine frivolity, and took in the same view as his wife.

It was a handful of minutes before he felt a warm pressure against his arm. Sansa had taken to doing that, leaning on him. It wasn't anything heavy, he was positive it looked like nothing more than his wife standing close. It was, he was sure, more so a reassurance of his presence - or perhaps a reassurance of hers.

Without looking, he turned the hand closest to her palm-up and slipped it under hers. His mouth twitched as he felt her fingers twine into place, and her body lean into him harder.

 _Reassured indeed_.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She waited until they had supped and were sitting at their desk to approach Tywin in regard to Tyrion. Jaime's words had an impact, and Sansa found herself again trying to fathom the callous disregard a father could have for a son in relation to her own family, the task making her feel dizzy and distracted.

"Would you prefer to be elsewhere?"

When Tywin's serious voice was edged in irritation it could gain the attention of the deaf.

She blinked at him, embarrassed to be caught out. "Apologies, my lord, no."

Her voice was sincere, but still distracted and Tywin did not need any special skill to know toward whom his wife's attention was pointed.

"If he is as smart as he says, he will take the Black and be done with it."

Her husband was firm, but he afforded Sansa something that could be taken as a softened look. One she returned thoughtfully, hopefully, and readied herself for the words she needed to speak.

"He will die in the North. You know that."

Tywin's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened as he inspected his wife, determining whether he truly comprehended what she was saying. It was an odd feeling not to be sure of his instinct. She was too clever to willingly disclose the information he needed to confirm his suspicion, but he was no fool either. Her wiles worked only on those who did not have an intimate knowledge of her - everyone _other_ than him.

"If that is his fate, so be it," he replied coolly.

He was fascinated by the slight pull of her brow and subtle working of her jaw. Tywin did not like to see his wife wear his attitude wholly, but when the actions were subtle it made him feel light.

Sansa spoke softly, but with a seriousness that had become her own. "You can't mean that."

"I do," he answered casually, without hesitation.

Tywin looked at his wife. Her posture was one of disappointment and it affected him. He did not like to be second guessed in the most general of circumstances, but to be doubted by Sansa felt like a physical blow. As such, when a perceived strike landed no different than a perceived slight, his face hardened to a scowl and it triggered his ire.

"Why are you choosing to be so blind, Sansa?" He pulled his brow down even further. "As Tyrion lives and breathes, he will always taint House Lannister." His eyes were made of stone then, his voice turned dark, and he said, "I _cannot_ disinherit him, it would prove weakness. Do you understand?"

Sansa _did_ understand, although she _did not_ agree. She had to try and save her friend from wrongful guilt and certain death.

"Exile him," she said, letting her idea speak on its own. "Send him across the sea. Bury him in a foreign land, but at least allow him to live."

Tywin's keen eyes narrowed to a point and his tone rang absolutely deadly. "He has been brought to trial for murdering _the King_ , and you want the Hand of the King to not only _allow_ him to escape, but provide the means as well?"

"No, my lord." Sansa's tone was wholly neutral. "I am making an inquiry to a father who has the means to save his son."

Sansa watched her husband's features sink to a depth signifying total fury.

"That _thing_ you call my _son_ has a penchant for whores," he snarled at her, cocking his head slightly he continued, "Mayhaps his taste has extended to that of noble ladies." He watched his wife jolt her chin back, her eyes gaining their own fiery fury at the insult of his words. Tywin curled his lip and growled, "Exactly, what was it you _did_ with him in your godswood?"

The cruel, demeaning words hit her as fast and as hard as her palm struck the place of their origin.

Heartbeats were the extent of time it took for both of them to stand. Tywin did not reach out or physically touch his wife, but he used the bulk of his body to pace her backward until she came to a painful halt. Running herself full-tilt into a side door of the sitting room. He slammed each of his palms on either side of her head and brought his face no more than a hands width away from hers. It was as if he were taunting her to strike him again.

"How _dare_ you," she breathed at him, full of her own version of rage.

Tywin seethed, "How dare _you_."

Her voice was almost whispered, her eyes remained trained on his, each word was accentuated. "He is your son-"

Still in her face, still caging her in, Tywin Lannister became brutal. "Your broken womb sloughing out my child does _not_ make you a mother, it makes you a _failure_. And hardly an authority on raising children."

The tears, disgust, and defeat he was expecting from the girl in front of him were nowhere to be seen.

His words should have cut her open. Her husband slung them like a blade and he meant them to injure. She should have been doubled over and bleeding tears, but she couldn't. Sansa was too caught up in the face of the man trying to inflict damage on her. Time ticked to something unmoving and Sansa could see clearly that with every word that left his mouth, Tywin's eyes filled with pain. That with every attempt to verbally strike her down, he was crumbling twice as hard and twice as deep.

He was destroying himself unknowingly because he himself was hurting.

Stoicism reflected in her words. "He didn't murder _her_ , Tywin."

His jaw snapped shut and Sansa could see the muscles working under the skin there. In an instant the pain in his eyes turned to wrath and he brought his hand back behind him, swinging it forward again in a large vicious arc. He struck the heavy wooden door with so much force, Sansa's ears rang and she bounced slightly from the impact.

However, when she focused again, his teeth were bared, his face twisted in rage, but his eyes were utterly dismal.

Her forehead pinched slightly in concern and, at the same time, her hand reached out and settled on his cheek, rubbing a little bit onto his whiskers. She had expected him to fling her hand away, at the very least balk at her sentimentality. Instead his brows raised high as his every feature contorted with aching sadness.

Using no more than pressure at her fingertips, Sansa pulled his head toward her and let him find his own peace by burrowing his face into the bend at the base of her neck. She could hear his breath huffing, feel the hot puffs warming her through her gown, and she brought her other hand up and stroked the back of his neck.

Tywin's palms came off the door and caressed her upper arms lightly. His wife replied to his touch by stroking his neck with a heavier hand and pulling him into her warm inviting skin. He wanted to stay there, it was where he felt free and unburdened. Like he used to with Joanna...

 _No_ , he corrected himself, they were two very different women and he felt differently with each... But the end result was the same.

It _was_ the same and he hated himself for allowing it.

Sansa felt her husband's body wrench severely. His position did not change; however, he coughed out a sound that prompted her to hold him even closer, tighter. It wasn't a sob of sorrow or anything pertaining to tears, it was as though his body forced out a lungful of bitterness and anguish, expelling his hurt.

They stood like that, in a position of solace, for what could have been days. Neither cared.

It was Tywin who finally moved. He nudged his forehead along her jawline and up her cheek, like a cat seeking attention, but it was accompanied with a keening, throaty noise signifying frustration.

When he pulled away from her she could see the same hurt in his eyes from before as they passed her field of vision. When he stood to full height he tilted his head back and inhaled deeply, and when he made the slow return to look at her again, his mouth held a scowl while his eyes were now frozen in seriousness.

She felt him start to break contact, so she gripped tight the sleeves connected to the arms and hands that were once holding her.

"No." Was all he said, emotionless.

Sansa let him go, let him turn and leave, knowing her attempt to save Tyrion's life had been fruitless.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 _She is standing in the outer ward. Except, instead of dirt and sawdust under her, it is hot sand. Her feet are almost burning in the crimson slippers that cover them._

 _The sun is golden and bright, there is a cool breeze but there is no snow. It isn't winter this time, and there is no one populating the audience pavilions._

 _"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

 _The words are echoing around her, but there are no walls from which they can bounce. The longer she waits, the louder they ring._

 _She is frightened; she can feel that burn at the core of her._

 _She wants to run, but when she attempts to raise her foot it is as though it is made of lead and keeps her rooted._

 _"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

 _The sand around her feet begins to vibrate. The small mounds and tiny dunes are flattening as sheets of grains are quaking out in the same rhythm as the vibrations._ _The intensity of the shaking is increasing and it is a sudden ominous realization that it isn't emanating from the ground, but it's a physical force getting closer._

 _"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

 _She is concentrating on trying to move her now burning feet when a shadow covers her. Looking toward the shade, she strangles out a scream at the giant in front of her._ _The mountain of a man is clad in plate made of flesh and bone - some fresh, some old, all putrid and festering._

 _And he is getting closer._

 _"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

 _The words sound like they are singing about her, a battle cry or a prayer hymn. She isn't sure which, but the giant is almost on her and her feet are still anchors._

 _As the monster gets closer, his shadow gets colder. She can see her breath and wisps of snow._

 _It's only a moment that she is distracted by the comfort of the familiar weather, but it is all that's needed for the rancid giant to be on her. He doesn't even stop to consider her, he clasps his fist around her throat and her head is tilted all the way back just to accommodate the massiveness. He's not squeezing, but he lifts her, her anchors nothing more than toys, and brings her close to his helm._

 _At this proximity she can see the teeth and hair and bits of skin and meat built into the horrible armour. It makes her retch, but her head is at such an angle that the sickly spasm is denied exit and settles as a pain in her chest._

 _"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

 _Her mouth is moving. The words are hers._

 _"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

 _She feels rage and sorrow building inside her and it gives her strength and takes it away, equally._

 _"You raped her. You murdered her. You kill-"_

 _The fist holding her tightens and she has to strain the muscles in her neck just to swallow air into her lungs._ _At the same time the abomination is leaning in to her, his grip is constricting further._

 _"Elia of Dorne."_

 _The booming voice rattles her teeth._

 _"I killed her screaming whelp."_

 _She feels the carnage-coated gauntlet biting into her flesh._

 _"_ Then _I raped her."_

 _Stabbing white points of light start hindering her vision, her lungs are burning for air._

 _"Then I smashed her fucking head in like this..."_

 _She feels a shift in their position, watches the shadow stretch back and poise to strike. She's choking on the blood she can taste in her mouth and her hands are clawing at the viscous gore covering the beast's face._

 _In a beautiful, terrible instant her fingers find a seam, leverage to pull, and she yanks with everything she's made of, her nails breaking and ripping out with the effort, but the cover is free and gone._ _The blood-helm removed, she will face the monster so eager for her death._ _She forces her eyes wide so she can see past the strangulation, and the eyes that stare back are green._

 _Green with flecks of gold._

 _She can feel herself weeping, hot tears contrasting the cold of Tywin's shadow._

 _He smiles at her, and for the briefest of heartbeats she thinks he has recognized his mistake._

 _"The prince was not_ hers _to marry."_

 _Her wide eyes capture the quick movement of the impossibly large fist that is about to end her life-_

Gasping for air and sitting upright, Sansa could feel herself shaking as the fog of sleep slowly rolled off her. The vivid dream was drying up as well, blowing away into the dust of the awake, but the residual fear and horror were what was making her tremble in the dark of their bedchamber.

 _Their_ bedchamber.

She cautiously turned her head toward the man laying next to her, quietly letting out a breath of relief at his continued sleep. She could not fathom seeing his eyes. Not yet, not even in the dark of the room. There was enough light with the full moon in the window she would have surely seen her nightmare.

The sack of King's Landing was something she knew in passing. Something neither her father, nor anyone else, expanded on except to say it was a barbarous necessity to crown a new king. So when she absently mentioned it to Tywin after witnessing the atrocious death of one man and listening to the painfully slow demise of a second for the sake of the death of a third, she expected no more than what she had been told previously.

A queasiness emerged from the pit of her stomach at the thought of the details, _of the truth_ , he had told her. He would not lie and asked her pointedly if she wanted to hear what he had to say. She should have known better.

She did know better, and _that_ was worse.

Tywin Lannister was a ruthless, cruel man, who cared no more for babes and princesses than he did for the smallfolk shredded to tatters in the Riverlands.

Sheep.

 _"The prince was not_ hers _to marry."_

Another _truth_ he told of the matter. One that Sansa easily, horribly stitched into the reality of her husband's motivations. Another slight, known to those who caused it or not, was another debt to be paid, which created even more debt which was ultimately paid by the charming prince.

More blood.

It was always blood, death and misery. They were the currency of vengeance. Traded commodities as valuable as gold, silver and copper. More so, some would say, because life is something precious, priceless. Sansa knew differently though, she knew that vengeance cheapened everything it touched, even the lives involved. The vengeance she had allowed in the name of her family had cheapened her own life, but it was a burden she carried willingly.

And that was the crux of it: how you bore that weight of responsibility.

Her father bore the onus of reprisal as a cloak. He wore it for all to see, in his face, in his actions, in the way he raised his children. Eddard Stark walked the steps of retribution, only to turn around and face his own. Whether it was by making amends to families, or by owning the guilt by adding another layer to his ever-weighted cloak.

Her husband ate his revenge like a meal. He swallowed it, digested it, and carried on without care or remorse. Tywin Lannister focused solely on the actions he took, not the repercussions left in his wake, and that was something of a tragedy. Every bite of harm and debt he consumed, consumed _him_ in some way.

But perhaps that was the natural course of retribution, she thought. In that it had its own debts to be paid.

Her _husband_...

She should be horrified of the man with whom she shared a bed, with whom she laid with - so full of want and desire when she did. She should be horrified of herself for not only giving her mind and body so willingly, but for taking of his with the same amount of passion. But every time she felt something new, even outside physical intimacy or gained knowledge and secrets, she found she wanted, _needed_ , more... And her husband was the only person who could provided what she sought.

Her dream rounded on her again, the bestial giant in the midst of killing her. She did not know what to make of it, but what she _did_ know was that if she squandered her focus on a dream she would have a thousand scenarios of equal validity and be no closer to defining it. The only thing she would gain would be distance; distance from properly protecting herself from the very real, very deadly nightmares that walked around her every day.

Closing her eyes again, she concentrated on breathing, on clearing her mind, on how she could see Tyrion before...

Her eyes shut tighter at the thought of losing one more person she cared for. When she blinked them open, her vision naturally adjusted to her dim surroundings and she shifted her attention to the large window with the soft white light shimmering through it.

The weather was bitterly cold that day and it had carried into the night, making the moon even brighter.

Then she caught it.

At the berm of the luminous wedge of light was a form.

With stabs of fear and panic rocking through her, Sansa fought back her instinct to scream at the intrusion of whatever was with them in the privacy of their bed chamber. It wasn't moving, which gave her a chance to scrutinize it. She resolved that if there was motion, she would alarm the deadly man sleeping next to her.

All at once, the pieces assembled into recognition - the height, the golden curls... Tyrion...

But now she was confused, she had watched him being lead to the black cells...

It was her choice to spectate the trial by combat, Tywin did not give her a directive either way, but she _had_ to be there for Tyrion. Even if it meant sitting at a point midway between each side of the trial, in a position made to look impartial, with the man, his father, who categorically doomed him.

She was starting to make out the finer details as her mind registered the features she knew by heart. The moonlight was glittering in Tyrion's eyes, mismatched as they were, and his mouth was a small solemn line. He was looking at her, she could see that as well. However, his posture was not casual or even tensed in anger. He looked readied, but she was unsure if that was an accurate interpretation because half of him was bathed in black shadow.

Until another kind of glittering caught her attention. It was duller than the radiance of Tyrion's eyes, but just as lethal.

He held a crossbow, pointed barebow in her direction. The string in its catch, she could see the bolt from tip to fletching. Sansa knew this weapon intimately, she had been tormented and threatened with one for so long.

 _So long ago_.

They just stared like that, neither moving nor making a sound.

Tyrion knew she could easily call for help, he half expected it. He did not want to hurt her, she had to know that, his aim was the man at her side. He had been fueled by a peerless hate and need for vengeance to reach the point where he stood at the end of his father's bed, but when Sansa sat up, obviously distressed from a dream, his resolve faltered.

It was as if his mind forgot she would be there, wrapped up in his furor as he was.

Her eyes were wide, but calm. He could see the blue in them. As dark as the night and room were, her eyes caught even the vaguest of light and it allowed them to radiate as though it were the brightest of days.

But she did not move.

Not even when he watched his father's hand come up beside her and stroke a tender path from her shoulder to her elbow, then move to rest over her hands sitting folded on her lap.

But she did not speak.

Not even when he heard his father's sleep-addled voice arise from a point behind her.

"Sansa, you're alright, love. You're safe."

Tyrion watched Sansa's breathing deepen only a fraction as she remained silent and unmoving.

 _Love_.

Tywin only said it to her when he was teetering on either side of sleep. Sansa initially thought he was mistaking her for Joanna and that the endearment was meant for a ghost, but it became quite clear that he was addressing _her_ when his words would be accompanied by her name and a touch, or a kiss. It was special to her and she kept each instance locked away inside of herself. This time... This time there was nothing but unease.

Sansa felt Tywin's hands curl around hers a bit tighter before he spoke in his groggy voice again.

"Come, lay down. You're shivering in the cold."

Sansa didn't want to take her eyes off Tyrion, did not want to be left unknowing, but she was well aware that if she stayed upright her husband would wake fully and rise as well.

Her choice made, Sansa laid back slowly, letting the hand resting at her middle guide her descent. It was that same hand that tucked itself around her fully and pulled her into the warm body beside her. She turned to her side, away from Tywin, and allowed him to fit against her; coiled tight and possessive, as he was apt to do.

She could make out the arm Tywin had under her head and grabbed for it. Pulling it to bend naturally at the elbow, it now draped down the front of her and she found herself hugging it tightly. More tightly than she normally would, but she couldn't stop her need to do so.

It was fear, and she was torn.

Sansa knew that Tyrion had suffered at the whim of his father, she understood his disdain, but she never thought he would be pushed to kill, pushed to _become_ Tywin.

Her next thoughts were selfish and necessary. If Tywin died, she would again be a ward of the realm - of the Queen. Regardless of what name she was married to she would always be a Stark, and without the husband who erased that name, Sansa was as good as dead herself.

At that, a pang of panic rippled to her belly and she held onto him fiercely. She could feel his fingers tighten in the thick fabric of her nightgown, a response to her frantic clutching, and with it came another pang, this time of sobering comprehension. She did not want Tywin Lannister - _her husband -_ to die either.

There was a tired growl in her hair. "Are you _quite_ alright?"

She was not. All she could see in her mind's eye was a bolt and fletching highlighted in the glow of the moon.

She let go of his arm and turned, with some effort, in his tight embrace until she was facing him in the dark. Sansa could not find any words, but felt she had to move quickly. Placing her palm against his shoulder she pressed to indicate he was to turn onto his back.

" _What_ do you _want_ -" he snarled, but was cut off by her quiet urgent protest.

" _Please,"_ she squeaked, pushing harder.

No sooner was he on his back than she was overtop him like one of the many furs already piled on them. Tywin huffed and groaned his annoyance and pain. Her climb was hurried, scratching in places, pressing uncomfortably in others, prying at and adjusting her bedgown to accommodate her move. There was no rest until her knees were on either side of his waist, her arms were tucked against his sides and her face and head were nestled firmly into the side of his neck.

 _...as good as dead herself..._

It was only after Sansa's breathing calmed to something near normal that Tywin grouched, " _What_ is wrong with you?"

"I-I'm afraid." It was the truth whispered into his skin.

 _...as good as dead herself..._

She rose and fell with his deep inhale and exhale, then felt fingers gently stroke their way under her braid to the back of her neck.

"This will _not_ be a habit."

The statement was curt and sounded angry, but the touch on her skin spoke differently so she listened to the latter.

Yet she did not sleep, even when Tywin's own slumber became hypnotizing. Not until the morning light replaced the moonlight, when her eyes burned and could not stay open any longer.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

How long she slept, she could not discern. She remembered being woken slightly when Tywin calculated how best to remove her from his body and being carefully tucked in once he was successful. Outside that, her sleep was heavy and her dreams were nonexistent.

When Sansa finally woke, it looked like evening again and upon inquiring to a maid that had been seated and waiting in a small alcove by the fireplace, her suspicion was confirmed.

"It's just past supper, m'lady." Her maid talked as she bathed and dressed her charge. "Lord Tywin said to let you sleep." The maid plaited her hair and didn't miss a beat, adding, "And make sure someone was here, waitin' at the ready."

Sansa's thoughts went to Tyrion and her heart grew heavy and ashamed. She would not have been able to watch him die, but she should have honored him by being _awake_ , at the very least.

As she flicked her eyes to the place where she saw him standing the previous night, she seriously considered his presence could have been a dream. Perhaps a walking-dream of her own. However, the reality she confirmed, just as blood flowed in her veins, was that he _had_ been there. That he _had_ been armed, and that she and Tywin still lived.

 _Tyrion_...

She remained withdrawn through the familiar tugs and pulls of her hair. She had been wearing it down more in the cold weather and was somewhat disappointed when the routine ended quicker than usual. But as Sansa stood, her maid produced a long rectangular paper parcel and held it out.

"M'lord wanted you to open it first thing."

It was then that she realized there had been no gossip. Her maids were silent in the presence of her husband, but they knew they had a woman looking for companionship in their lady. They weren't friends, but Sansa's maids were not afraid to speak in front of her, or _to_ her.

"Deena," Sansa ventured, ensuring her words were soft and welcoming. "What of Lord Tyrion?"

She watched her maid's face fall to a look of gravity. So much so, the other woman's eyes dropped to her feet. The change in demeanour spoke louder than words: threats had been made. It raised more questions than it answered, and suddenly the additional sleep seemed welcomed.

Lady Sansa took the gift with a gentle smile and dismissed her handmaid.

Sitting down again she examined the package more thoroughly. It was more than one layer of thick parchment, like the type used for correspondence, folded on each end with two crimson ribbons wrapped over each side and sealed at their intersection with the Lannister seal pressed into a melted circle of thick, golden wax. It was the same pomp Tywin used as the Hand of the King to communicate with foreign royalty and higher standing lords and dignitaries. There was also something in it. She could feel that with her fingers, but the thickness of the paper made it impossible to identify what it was exactly.

Setting it on the small table's hard surface, Sansa broke the seal and pulled the ends of ribbons.

She was about to open the folds of paper when she had a white-hot wave of panic.

 _Tyrion_...

Her husband was many things, and more, but she had to believe he would not torture her with some gruesome artifact of her friend. She _had_ to believe.

Inhaling deep through her nose, Sansa opened the many layers of paper. And while the contents were not horrific, they _were_ frightening.

Wrapped neatly, in grand fashion, she had been gifted an extraordinarily average crossbow bolt.

 _...as good as dead herself..._

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lyol met her in the sitting room and relayed Tywin's request that she meet him in his solar. The steward would not defy his lord by speaking more than he was commanded, but the look he carried in his eyes told a tale of worry - one that Sansa smiled reassuringly at.

She had left her _gift_ tucked away securely in her possessions. It was not a key to admittance or discussion, so she kept it as a reminder... of a friend, of a choice, and of a path taken by each of them.

When she entered the smaller room, she immediately noticed the roaring fire, then the silent, brooding lion in front of it.

There was only a slight hesitation before she walked in further.

Tywin refused to look at her. The only acknowledgement he gave to her existence was raising his hand and pointing to a chair that was positioned slightly askew in front of him, silently commanding her to sit. Whether he was treating her like this to leverage control or to simply insult her, she did not know, but in the years of her marriage she knew well enough to not let it bother her. Gestures were just that, and unless he moved to physically touch her, they held no concern.

With that, she took the seat being offered and looked earnestly at the man staring into the hearth instead of at his wife. He kept his eyes away and addressed her degradingly.

"I have been either _with_ you, or _in_ you, so I know you didn't free him." Tywin took a calming breath and kept his focus on the flames. "You saw him in our bed chamber, didn't you?"

In her position on the chair, she was almost facing him, but she might as well be in another room entirely. Her husband was stewing in his anger, and it made it seem that he was talking _through_ her.

She would not lie to him. She knew he knew the truth, and to deny it would be unnecessarily complicated for both of them.

"Yes, I did."

Another hard-learned lesson was to only provide enough information as required to answer a question. Sansa could have elaborated on _where_ she saw him, at approximately what time, and that he was armed, but it would only served to spark Tywin's suspicion and add more questions to his agenda.

She watched his jaw work, and heard his teeth grinding - something he only did when he was truly wroth.

He bared his teeth and gritted, " _Why_?"

There was no easy answer for _that_ question - _those_ questions. Why did she not wake him? Why did she choose Tyrion over him? Sansa supposed it was the latter question her husband had truly posed.

Tywin saved her _any_ answer.

"You owed him _nothing_ ,"he hissed, flicking his enraged eyes at her for only a second.

Sansa looked down at her hands. She knew anything she said would not budge Tywin in his opinion of Tyrion, but her husband's dour words would not change hers, either.

"I owed him plenty." Sansa's tone was soft, speaking the words to her lap. "When Joffrey had me stripped..." she took an involuntary breath that shuddered in both directions. "When I had already been beaten and was waiting for more, I _knew_ there was a good chance I would die that day." Sansa looked at him then, he was still peering past her, his jaw was working furiously, but his eyes were not so flinty. "Tyrion walked in, in _your_ stead, and ended my suffering, ended my humiliation."

After a stretch of silence, Sansa hardened her voice. "He saved my life that day," she said. Tywin met her eyes then, and she vowed, "I owed him _plenty_ , my lord."

He flicked his vision beyond her again and she watched his countenance shift and tick through levels of ire and, hopefully, understanding.

Tywin settled on her after several long minutes, and spoke in a bottomless tone. "His death will be slow and vicious. You have ensured that."

He watched his wife look to her folded hands and mull her considerations. She was taking too long and he found himself training his gaze on the fire instead of chastising her hesitation.

"I'm not sorry."

It was the answer he was expecting from her, dawdled by youth and inexperience. Tywin aimed his eyes at the flames in front of him and his bitter discourse squarely at his wife.

"I _know_ ," he spat. "And while you've freed a condemned man in the short term, you've saved the life of his condemner in the long term." He blinked long and slow, accentuating the pause. "The same man you are bound to." His eyes flicked to hers, his speech turned corrosive, "Some would call you impressively stupid. Myself included."

The lull between them drew out, Tywin flicked his glare away and flexed his jaw.

"I didn't save you, my lord."

Sansa's words interrupted the prolonged silence. They were gentle but firm and were directed, along with her regard, straight at her husband.

Lannister green snapped to and focused sharply on Tully blue, as a sneer tore through his words, "Really? What would you call draping yourself over me like a _fucking shield_?"

She kept his eye and took a long breath, and answered, "My lord, I would call it saving _myself_."

Tywin's eyes immediately narrowed and his upper lip began to curl in ridicule. She could hear him grinding his teeth again and watched as he deliberated his hatred and malice. He turned away from her though, sparing her no hurtful words or observations. His attention back to the fire, she could see plainly that he was still thinking.

In their quiet, observing the man before her, Sansa hoped Tywin could decipher her intentions. That she had _not_ , in fact, chosen Tyrion over him. It was not an accident, it was not the happenstance of her actions influencing an outcome, it was purely the truth of it. She valued each separately, differently, and chose them both equally.

When Tywin huffed angrily then sat up straighter, Sansa watched his features smooth to his natural impassiveness, flick his eyes to her then nod his head. It was terse, but it was all she needed to know he had understood and, begrudgingly, accepted her decision.

There would be a cost, she knew, somewhere, somehow, but she would bear it willingly. As it stood, she could tell he had dropped the matter and was mentally moving on. Not from Tyrion, but from _her_. Her use to him as an angle of harm against his son or to further his gain in the matter in general was at an end.

Deep in her thoughts in the quiet room, Sansa was brought out of them by Tywin's matter-of-fact voice.

"Your mother has become an outlaw."

Sansa blinked several times, rearranging her internal cogs and gears to accommodate a new conversation and line of thought.

"My _mother_ is dead, my lord."

It was a practiced response. One that Tywin called a delusional falsity, one that she defended as truth.

He was of no mood to argue, yet again, about truth and perception.

"As you say my lady. _However_ , the Westermen hanging from their necks would disagree."

Sansa was not shocked at the news, he could see. She was digesting it, though. Slowly.

His patience was nowhere to be found, so he continued, "She will be hunted, Sansa. You must know that."

"I do, my lord," she clipped, not unkindly, but without hesitation.

Tywin looked at his wife then, raised his chin, looked at her through half lids, and drawled, "Yet you will continue..." He offered a smirk that looked more like a lazy grimace. "...as you have been, regardless?"

Again, with her lovely natural tone, her eyes just as sure as his, she did not hesitate her answer.

"I will," she assured.

He stood then, walked calmly to his wife, gently reached his hand out to hold the back of her head, and pulled her forward. He lightly caressed his fingers through the loose wisps hair under her plait, and kissed her forehead softly.

Normally she would expect her husband to continue his stride out of the room. However, this time he made use of his hand's position and twisted her length of braid around his palm. The tensity applied was not uncomfortable and was used more to gently turn and pivot her head at varying angles, like Tywin was inspecting a face he'd seen a thousand times.

He was still looking at her through half lids, and it was not lost on Sansa that her husband was breathing heavier. Tywin's face had not moved and where his lips once met her forehead, the pull he applied to her hair tilted her head back until her mouth was there instead.

Her lips were parted a tiny amount and when his mouth descended again, hers opened further, willingly. She kissed him back confidently with purpose. Even with the restriction of his hand firmly holding her hair, she forced her way through it in order to return his affection. It caused Tywin to growl on her tongue and make a conscious effort to keep his knees.

When he pulled back from their kiss, he sucked her bottom lip and grazed it with his teeth. The sound his wife moaned into the pocket of air they were sharing made his cock throb. She was watching him, her eyes wide and just starting to haze into lust, her cheeks just starting to pink, her chest just starting to heave...

Tywin smirked at her, control having been established. Then, just as easily, it was dismantled as her fingertips swept against the hard length pressing a firm bulge into his breeches, making him pant quick and shallow.

He let go the grip on her hair and lightly kissed the lips she had kept tipped up, seemingly waiting for him. Lingering in their sweetness, smirking again for only a moment before he stood up straighter, turned and left her.

Through his actions, Sansa knew her husband was not praising her defiance and support of her mother, nor was he condemning her defiance and support of Tyrion. He was in fact encouraging her challenge.

Some men settled their want of strategy and tactics by playing cyvasse. Tywin Lannister played with _real_ pieces, for _real_ stakes - wagers set and paid in lives and blood. It was a game the old lion played with lethal efficiency and he knew, to his depthless gratification, that Sansa had skill in her own right.

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	15. Winter IV

**This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence related to physical and sexual assault. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.**

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Tywin woke his wife at an early hour. Not excessively early however, the sun had already peeked over the horizon, but early enough to take her where he intended, then begin council within an acceptable time.

His error had been in not informing her the previous evening that her company would be required. Thus enduring the long, tedious process of waking her. His wife had the uncanny ability to speak coherently, alluding to wakefulness, only to drop into a sound sleep once he or her handmaid had walked away.

After half a dozen attempts to let Sansa wake civilly his flickering agitation turned consistent, and he scooped her out of the heated cocoon of their bed. He stood her in front of him, her eyes narrowed and blinking, as they were apt to do when one was just woken by being exposed to air colder than they were used to. Her sleepy expression slowly moulded to a look of annoyance at being removed from her nest of furs and coverings.

Tywin scoffed at his wife's drowsy attempt at anger. "Prepare yourself quickly, my lady."

She was nodding absently as he spoke and prattled her, "Yes, my lord," through a badly stifled yawn.

For as much as she looked out of sorts his wife readied quickly, dressed and bundled for warmth, much to Tywin's approval.

They walked the Keep in silence, her gloved hand on his arm. Sansa did not know where her husband was leading her. They had taken more than one turn she was unfamiliar with, descended stairs she knew nothing of prior, but it seemed as though they were in or near the center of the castle. She could hear distant chatter, then scrapes and clinks of either a kitchen or a laundry, and understood they were well out of reach of gentility - it sounded friendly and made her smile.

The pleasant distraction of genuine humanity did not last long, as Tywin turned her, their guards in tow, down a narrow passage that was almost entirely in the dark. The air was getting colder with every step, her breath clouded the air - even though she could not see it. She gripped her husband tighter.

When they came to a stop in the blackness, Sansa heard one guard careening into the other behind her. In the same instant she felt Tywin pull her in front of him, embracing her snugly as the distinct shove of his body told her he took the impact of the sightless men and shielded her from injury.

 _A debt paid,_ her mind affirmed to itself. Whether the internal quip was in humour or not was not dwelled on.

"F-Forgive me, m'lord," one of the guards offered fearfully.

She felt Tywin straighten and twist to address the men behind them.

"Run into me again and you will spend a sennight in stocks learning to watch your feet."

Lord Tywin did not utter a threat, though it was flung like one, nor was it a boneless taunt. It was a problem and its solution. No more, no less.

The men knew better than to speak another word, allowing their liege to continue in his task. Tywin had no issue navigating in the murk, he sidestepped around her with the fluid grace he was known for and worked to rattle open what she identified as a door. She could hear him huff and pull on the stubborn latch until she began to see slivers of light define the large rectangle egress.

When he opened the door fully, it was like another world beyond it. Sansa smiled wide and bright as her nostrils stuck closed and her lungs coughed in the all-consuming cold.

It was an inner yard, large like a ballroom with tall, tall walls enclosing it and not one window opening up _to_ it. There was no entrance other than the one Tywin had led her to and, as she crouched a tiny amount and peered upward to the sky, winter-bright at the upper edge of the walls, she considered, _unless you can fly_.

It was shady and cold in the deep of it, but that was secondary. Her husband held her elbow as she stepped through the door into the space. She needed assistance to get past the initial drifts of snow pressed against the entrance way.

King's Landing was entrenched in winter, but the constant sea winds prevented snow from piling to any significance. It simply blew until it came to rest against the sides of buildings or the curtain walls. It stacked itself high, to be sure, but not in a way that she was used to. Not in a way that she could enjoy.

She knew then why he insisted on her wearing two layers of heavy stockings. In the small yard the snow was deep, almost to her knees, light enough to walk in but also heavy enough that it felt real.

When the guards pushed the thick door closed again, it was like they were alone at the bottom of a barrel. A place where snow blew in on currents of air but could not escape again. It was quiet and still in the depths of the barrel. So much so, she could hear the soft patter of flakes landing on each other.

Sansa turned her head and smiled at her husband, watching him kick through the snow after her. He did not reciprocate but his eyes were soft. He jutted his chin slightly as if to tell her she need not be with him, to move away and enjoy what he had given her.

The smile on Sansa's face widened anyway, in true joy, and Tywin found he could not stop the corner of his mouth twitching.

Turning away from him, his wife walked to the edge of the yard where the snow had piled highest, pushed her gloved fingers into it, picked it up, graded it in her fingertips, and giggled at it. He ducked his head, tilted his ear upward and appreciated the sound echoing up the walls towering over them.

He would never tell her what the space had been used for when Aerys ruled. The soft white dunes lay at a depth that hid the scars and burns that plagued the ground and a small distance up the edges.

The snow acted as a blanket over that history of violence.

It was definitely colder in the shadows, their breath came in puffs of white, but it did not seem to bother Sansa. She kept her smile made of happiness and pushed her way through the fluffy drifts. The moment she saw the winter her husband found for her, Sansa was taken to Winterfell. It didn't matter that winter only existed in a walled-in box, or that the snow was nowhere near as deep as she remembered. _I've grown since then_ , she smiled in her mind. What mattered was that it existed as a peaceful place much like the godswood. It was quiet and calm, another world altogether in the midst of a place that normally afforded nothing of the kind.

Tywin looked up. The sky was brilliant even in the well they were standing in, more so perhaps. It made him squint, but he could see swirls of snow descending, adding to the accumulation on the ground. He closed his eyes then and reveled in the feeling of brief moments of cold on his skin as flakes fell and landed on his head, face and neck, then melted in the same instant.

He remembered snow. Tywin had lived through his share of winters, but he never really _noticed_ it before, not truly. Never really took the time to see the snow as anything other than a cursed burden, something fit for hardship and death. But as the vivid laughter of his wife echoed around him, he acknowledged that in some instances it only took perspective to transform misery to happiness, and as he squeezed his eyes tighter he felt the adolescent - _bloody foolish -_ hope that maybe it was through better eyes that _she_ saw _him_.

There was no time to dwell on deep thoughts as he was struck with a large amount of wet frozen cold, like the falling flakes had congregated and hit him all at once. As he scraped the now sticky snow off his neck and tried to wipe the icy water away to prevent it from continuing to into the warmth under his clothing, he was struck again. This time the congregated snow had a direction, and Tywin immediately swung his seething eyes to where it had come from.

His anger didn't startle his wife the way it once did, she was able to keep whatever fear she had well within her. The only evidence his moods still garnered effect was how whatever expression her face held, in this case mirth and a smile, dropped to one that was blank and stony.

She threw snow at him, and her childish behaviour earned her his ire. Sansa knew that may be the cost, but felt that perhaps his thoughtful generosity also allowed the rarity of his humour.

She was wrong.

"I'm sorry, my lord, I didn't mean to-"

He cut her off with a snarl, "Of course you _meant_ to."

Hers was a calm voice, a trained voice. "I _am_ sorry, my lord."

Tywin walked toward his wife then, taking in how her gloved fingers first brushed off the evidence of her offence then twined into themselves, all the while keeping his gaze. He stood toe to toe with her and leaned his head down and stared into her gentle eyes.

"I have killed for less."

She knew all too well that the man in front of her spoke the truth. Sansa considered her husband, measured his words and assessed his posture. More than anything though, she read how his eyes were ticking.

"As you say, my lord," she said, a shade of her previous smile returning. "Snow is nothing to be trifled with."

His eyes narrowed, the green and gold remained intense and reflective because of the snow, even in the shadowy yard, even when his lids were no more than slits.

It only lasted a moment.

She watched his features soften as his widened eyes drifted over her face, as he methodically removed a glove, tucked it into a pocket beneath his cloak and used his hot fingertips to melt away a flake of snow that had landed on her eyebrow. He then brushed a few wayward strands of hair from her face where they had caught on her lips.

Sansa leaned her cold cheek into his warm palm when it came to rest on her there, and smiled at him once more, her cheeks red with cold, her eyes bright with contentment. When he used his other still-gloved hand to scoop away the ball of snow clumped thick in his collar, she suddenly felt guilty for throwing it to begin with.

But that guilt melted just as surely as snow at the mercy of any flame, when he leaned a little further down and kissed her gently. She could feel his long fingers moving from her cheek, guiding her head to tilt back further, and his other hand embrace across her back.

Sansa wrapped her own arms around his neck, deepening their kiss as she did so.

His warm fingers on her nape had found their way just inside her collar and were stroking gently. It was stirring her pool of desire and she could not stop an airy moan from resonating into his mouth.

Tywin pulled her even closer to him, as close as their heavy clothing would allow, and broke their kiss - mostly for _his_ benefit, so he could breathe again and not lose his wits. He settled his lips beside her ear and spoke in the low rasping voice his wife had coaxed out of him.

"Snow isn't the only thing _not_ to be trifled with, my lady."

Her mind was foggy and could not decipher his words before she felt his fingers tug her collar back and felt his embracing arm shift upward. This time she could not decipher his _actions_ , until the shock of wet cold slid down the center of her comfortably warm back.

Sansa squealed and writhed trying to separate her skin from the cruel unbearable freeze, but with every move she made she found herself held tighter in Tywin's arms.

 _Treacherous lion_.

The lump of snow made it midway, until the firmly tied corset of her gown finally stopped it and she had to suffer through its transition into water, and wherever _those_ icy fingers decided to travel.

She was still wiggling about, but had started laughing again. Tywin held her even tighter so he could listen, so he could bathe in the joyous noise of his lady. Tywin mistrusted laughter normally, despised it even, but hers was ethereal, and much like her touch, it worked to soothe and calm him on the most primary of levels.

He exhaled a long white cloud and held on.

Her arms cinched tight and she was breathless by the time her ordeal had ended, for the most part. Wisps of her hot breath were condensing and freezing in his side whiskers, but somehow the frost was inviting. Her laughter had sputtered to a stop, but she would spasm and giggle when, he assumed, the cold water found a new spot to torment.

"We must go back." His voice was just above a whisper, his mouth still close to the shell of her ear.

She hugged into his neck and he could feel her nod in agreement. When she spoke, her tone matched his. "Can we visit again, another time?"

It was an innocent question, but Tywin's mind bastardized it. As though Sansa thought he would give her a taste only to cruelly deny her. But that was _not_ what she meant and he _knew_ it.

He fought through his doubts, self and otherwise, to be able to return her gesture in the embrace they had not moved from, and nod his agreement into her skin.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Approaching their apartments, Sansa smiled softly as a greeting to her guard. He had stayed sentry outside the main doors while the Gold Cloaks that normally had the post followed Lord and Lady Lannister throughout the morning.

Her husband escorted her just inside the door as she kept walking, as she kept smiling to herself. Sansa turned at the right moment to observe Lord Tywin round on his heels to leave once more.

"Tywin," she called gently. He pivoted at the waist to look at her. She was wearing the smile that was his. "Thank you."

Sansa continued to smile and watched her husband blink quickly and flex his jaw. He was flustered and Sansa knew he would become angry soon enough. The morning had been enjoyable and she did not want to have it spoiled in such a way.

With her lips curved in a sweet grin, his wife inclined her head, slow and shallow. It was a motion normally used to dismiss, but she had used it a handful of times to acknowledge him. Acknowledge that his words were choking him, and that he needn't force anything for her.

At once, it made him grateful and resentful of his wife. She had a power in her natural considerations, something that could never be learned, something that could sway to equally effective maliciousness if the purveyor of such power should ever choose.

He knew what _he_ would choose, and perhaps that was the root of his resentment.

Tywin took a calming breath, felt his mouth twitch at the corner and spoke in a his serious tone. "You are most welcome, my lady."

He turned swiftly and left.

Sansa was still grinning when her handmaids arrived to assist in changing her into a dry gown, something with less layers. Dismissing her maids afterwards, she walked to the window in their bedchamber, the day had only become sunnier, the heat through the glass was deceiving.

One of the many tricks of winter and snow.

She thought then of Jon then. There had been a missive from the Wall, and even though the letter was not in his hand, it made her feel warmer than the sunlight's embrace. He was her family, her _only_ family left and living, and whether he knew it or not she held his memory close.

Walking to the sitting room, Sansa made a line to their desk and went in search of the letter from the Nights Watch. Doing so, she registered that the servants door was opened then closed and footsteps were approaching. She smiled wider and started talking before her eyes had left the parchment.

"Lyol, I was wond-"

In no more than a heartbeat her smile dropped and the back of her neck prickled.

Standing across the room was a large man. He was not superior in height to her husband, but he was wider and did not taper at the waist. Thick through and through. His hair was dark and not overly long, but it was oily - it shone in the worst kind of way - and as she took in what she could see from that distance, it looked as though he was oily everywhere.

He wore no armour, nor did he wear colours or a sigil of any kind. But he did wear a look in his eyes that kicked her fear into the forefront.

"Lord Tywin is in council, I would recommend taking your business there." She was steely, without a move or waver. It was a command.

He barked an awful laugh at her then. "My business is _right here_."

Sansa called for her guard, stern and loud, but there was no movement outside the massive doors at the entry.

"Keep calling." The man cocked his head and smirked. "Scream even."

Sansa felt cold to her core, that pang of consciousness that let her know it was time to survive. Such a part of her old life, it had been a while since it had rippled through her body, but it was as satisfying as it could be in that moment just to know it was still there.

"What is it you want, ser?" Ever-courteous, but firm all the same, it was a tone that had been known to stop arrogant lords mid-sentence.

"Your gash and your life, my lady," he said nonchalantly as he took a long stride toward her. "But I haven't decided which to take first."

"Do you _know_ who you are threatening?" She said it at the same time she stepped backward in cadence to the man's advance. It seemed an appropriate question, a redirection to subdue the man's menace.

"Aye, girly." He raised a thick brow and took another step in her direction. "I know true."

For every step the man made forward, Sansa stepped away, and as she did so, her mind flickered to the Bread Riots. More accurately, it flickered to the Hound; to the walking terror that sought to protect her in a way that matched his demeanour.

As she thought and took steps, she noticed that the man's leathers and mail weren't oily at all - they were bloody. It was drying in places and dripping in others. Her mind threatened to panic until she concentrated. She recalled the speed of the Hound, the pivots and turns he used to avoid attack on that day.

The Little Bird flew.

She was quick, evading the initial grab she saw him make, but his lower height and larger bulk was to his advantage. Instead of aiming for her upper body, the man went low and grabbed the closest things to him - her legs. Sansa fell forward, hard. She had managed to tuck her forearms in front of her so her body would not take the impact exclusively, but had no time to consider pain or bodily damage before she was flipped to her back with a ferocious twist.

The man straddled her at her waist, and as he leaned in to pin her hands at her sides she was consumed with the smell of him. It was sour and rot, worse than the stink of a man who had not bathed or washed his clothes. She tried to hold her breath to the offensive smell, but it was settling into her skin.

The sour man leaned down to her, breathing heavily on her neck. She tried to turn her head further away but she could not escape his voice.

"I'm gonna fuck every hole you have."

He laid more of his weight on her and it was frightening; not the comfort of her husband, not the safety she was used to, _this_ was malicious and restricting. Her hands pushed and shoved at the bulk of the man, he was unmovable but she would not give up so easily. She could feel a hard bulge in the sour man's breeches pressing into her belly, she _knew_ what it was.

Sansa felt hot tears leaking over her cheeks and through her fight and jostling the sour man sat up, she could see him smirking.

"That's it girly, struggle for me," he slurped at her, then wiggled - mocking her, provoking her.

With a drooling moan, he let go of her wrists and shifted, kneeing her legs painfully, spreading them so he could kneel there. That was when he reached down and dug in, viciously grabbing her arse in each hand, pulling her center upward roughly, she could hear her skirts tearing, and feel the press of his groin into hers.

He dropped her and his hands came around again, below her knees, searching for her hem, getting past her kicking; scratching and prodding their way under her skirts. When she prepped to scream, he laid on her again and ate her terror by mashing his open mouth into hers. His invading tongue was vile and clogging - she gagged into his mouth and it mercifully caused him to stop. But in ceasing his assault on her mouth, it allowed him to concentrate on her body.

She was tiring, her muscles were burning, her lungs ached hot with every breath like she had inhaled a hundred needles, but if she gave up she knew this man would brutalize her in a way she feared Joffrey would a lifetime ago.

The sour man gripped the wrist of the hand that was repeatedly trying to gouge at his face with such force she yelped at the feeling of her bones compressing. She watched him puppet her hand to his groin and rub the bulge there. The delicate skin on the palm of her hand went raw as it was scraped along the dried leather lacing, over and over.

"You feel that?" He ground her hand onto his cock again. She whimpered, but it only seemed to excite him. "Oh, you'll scream for me, whore."

He moved quick and all she could feel was more of his crushing heft, then his teeth on her earlobe, biting her, tearing at her. The air was pushed out of her lungs by how he sprawled over her body, she couldn't scream, he brought his face around to her again and laughed at the fear he found painted there.

His grinning lips were smeared with blood, _her_ blood, and he ran his tongue over the red, lapping at it.

"I gather you're sweet everywhere, girly."

She didn't have time to be afraid of his words; his other hand, the one that was still groping under her skirts, made its way behind her and she felt his fingers digging at her small clothes, working their way to her backside, clawing their way to her _there_.

Sansa wrenched her body trying to get away from the man's terror, from the suffering that waited for her, but his fingers knew their atrocious trade well, and as they made their dry press, fabric from her small clothes and all, into the place that was unmentionable, she howled a strangled scream and kicked upward with her knee.

She caught him, she hurt him. She didn't care where or how, all she knew was that his hands retracted, let her go, and he yowled in pain. Struggling from underneath him, she found her feet and made a large lunge for the door.

She did not move.

Her momentum ended before it started and no matter how hard she sprung her legs to run away from the monster at her back, she went nowhere. The laugh that came from behind her, from the sour man, was a sound of depravity.

Her gown tensed as it reeled her back to the animal looking to play with its prey before killing it. She dropped to her knees and screamed in short sharp waves, matching the tug and pull the sour man applied to her skirts, dragging her onto her back, underneath him again.

He was still on his knees, his eyes were on fire, the rest of him was controlled.

With every wail and flail she threw at the man, his mouth smiled wider, exposing his yellow teeth - just as sour as the rest of him. He was made of it, the stench wasn't something that could be washed away from the man, it was the timber he was built from.

Sansa cried harder. She didn't want to die with _this_ in her senses. With _this_ taking from her what she gave solely to her husband.

 _Tywin_...

Her knee angled and bucked again, but instead of the man letting go like last time, Sansa felt pain at her jaw, heard her teeth clacking off of each other, saw sparks and stars in her line of sight. Once, twice, she caught a glimpse of a fist, balled and falling heavy, the impact rocked her a third time before her mind flickered to black then resurfaced to pain and awful reality. That's when she tasted blood, as well as his breath when he bowed close to her face and spat his words.

"I like your fight, my lady, but it's your cunt I want."

With that, one of his hands was under her skirts again and the other hand clamped around her throat. Her mind was telling her body to keep fighting, but her muscles still felt like they were shifting from control to blackness. She was groggy and the haziness around her vision made her consider that, perhaps, this was all a dream.

When she felt the pinch and burn of the ribbons and fabric of her small clothes being roughly ripped away, then bruising fingers pushing her thighs open and jabbing and scratching at her most private area, she knew that her plight was no dream. All she could hear was blood pounding in her ears and the sound of herself sucking and swallowing air past the grip on her throat.

It was not enough. Her vision was blurring as she watched her hands try to push the man away with all the strength of a little bird.

The name fit again. Differently.

Terribly.

She felt his prick touching her thigh, nudging at her, so hard and hot and so, so wrong.

 _Tywin_...

She wanted her husband. It was all she wanted in that moment and she could feel herself weep fresh tears because he was all that she had, and now she had _nothing_.

Her bladder loosed, prompting the sour man to let go of her throat in order to shove her skirts up over her waist, exposing her shame. The man groaned and used the hand that had been killing her to pleasure himself at the degrading display of her fear.

He adjusted his body again and she could feel his hardness _there_.

 _Oh gods, right_ there.

Sansa pushed at him, sobbed harder, clawed at him, weak and useless and defeated, whimpering through her tears, " _No no... please stop... no..._ "

He looked at her then, his sour face full of lechery. "Must wa-"

In a blur of colour and shadow, the sour man was no longer on top of her. Her thighs were thumped and kicked with legs and boots as the shadow and the man slid further away. Too stunned to move, Sansa turned her head toward the tussle, her savior was fighting with high-arched heavy blows falling repeatedly on the sour man.

Sansa's hero subdued the sour man for mere heartbeats and took that time to turn his face to her. She didn't recognize him, she could only see the blood.

His face had been sliced open from his ear to the corner of his mouth. The blood, a spread of crimson all over and caked black in places, gave him a gruesome lopsided smile. She could see fresh blood bubbling from his neck, and made the appalling connection that his tunic was not in fact red to begin with.

It was when he spoke, gurgling blood and full of pain, that she knew him.

" _Run_."

Lyol.

She was on her feet but she couldn't move. Instead she made a step to reach for the steward only to be lunged at by the sour man. Lyol grappled the man again, but it was easy to see that he was outmatched in size and that most of his spirit had bled out already.

" _Run_!" It was all he could cough out through the ribbons of his face.

Sansa watched in horror as the sour man gained the top position over Lyol and rained his own blows until the smaller man cowered and covered his face. Her eyes flicked to the glitter that was now in the sour man's hand and she squeaked at the knowledge he was wielding a blade.

Lyol had hold of the man's sleeves, trying to control the dirk. He didn't look at her this time, but screamed, "Sansa! Ru-"

With a muffled squelch, the glitter disappeared into the chest of the older man. There was a groan with it - of pain or satisfaction, she didn't know. Her feet had turned her and were running, she watched herself lift the bar on the heavy outer doors. Behind her she could hear muffled cursing and more hissing thumps - one for every plunge of the blade.

Her mind was on fire and her body bolted forward out of the doors at great speed, but she was thwarted when her feet lost traction and her hands and knees hit the floor of the stone hallway.

It was like ice - slick and dangerous.

Her shoulder took the impact of her precarious slide into the opposite wall, but at the same time she saw that the passage wasn't besieged in ice, but blood.

Her guard lay motionless, awkward, on his face, a great pool of red emanating from under him. There was a girl slumped beside him, on her knees, her face on the floor. The way her head tilted under her weight made the slit in her throat gape like a tree that had been notched to fell.

Sansa recognized the girl as the washerwoman her guard had taken to. They were sweet toward each other-

She had to look away.

Her feet kept slipping out from under her, she couldn't stand in the thick viscous gore and found herself scrambling on her hands and knees, screeching for help and guards alike. It felt like days, but it had only been moments since she fled her rooms. Hindered by her gowns, she kept crawling away from the horror - sometimes on her hands and knees, sometimes on her belly - screaming as she went.

A little further down the hall, there were two more bodies wearing Lannister armour, stacked against the wall, equally as bloody, equally as dead.

She heard rushing footsteps, but could not gain a direction because of the echo in the stone corridor. She froze, curled herself into a tight ball and prepared to die. But as the quick steps got louder she could also hear the familiar clank of armour.

 _The sour man wore no armour._

When she raised her head she was looking at Lannister red and gold, and the eyes of soldiers that spoke of both panic and feral anger. Several hands picked her up, but not one of them said a word. Only a beat later and Sansa heard commands, strong and concise, spoken like Tywin but in a woman's voice. It was her own.

"Apprehend the man inside the apartments. Ensure that he lives, and send him to a cell." Her eyes were chips of ice and her voice was made of stone. "And retrieve Lord Tywin from council."

In a flurry of acknowledging words and gestures, men ran to their tasks, a few staying back with their lady.

"Find me a room to use, and summon the Maester and my handmaids."

Her fear was nowhere. She could not sense it within her, she could only feel anxiousness and a simmering anger.

What she felt was the weight of a debt.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin Lannister did not flinch with any emotion when he was told his wife had been attacked.

Tywin Lannister did not run when he was told of the blood and death within their home.

Tywin Lannister had to stop himself from stumbling in shock when he saw his wife standing rod-straight in a small room that smelled of dust, a scent only made sharper by the cold. She was bathed in blood, gown and all, and for a heartbeat he thought they had propped up her corpse.

Her face was streaked, the flecks and smears of blood were washed away in some places, signifying tears, her hands were almost black with it. But it was her dress, coated and ghastly, it threw his mind to seeing her bedgown stained the same way. The same way he still sometimes dreamt of her, only to wake up and find her warm and breathing, stroking his face and kissing him back to sleep.

He looked at her belly, then looked her in her eyes - they were calm and held no fear.

 _Sansa came back, ever resilient._

He took a step toward her, and stopped the frown that was threatening to present itself when she took a step back. Tywin raised a hand, as one would to slow someone coming at them, a calming gesture, and seemed to work. When he stepped again, she remained still.

He was just out of arm's reach when he could see her shivering. Her face was impassive, her eyes were clear and not hindered by shock. Looking her over more closely, Tywin could see past the dried and congealing blood on her face and hands. One side of her jaw was swelling and already starting to bruise, and her gown had been soaked through with blood in places. His wife was wet in gore in shivering in cold.

He stood in front of her, made short work of the bone fastenings and yanked himself out of his heavy winter doublet. While the jacket wasn't as constricting as the ones he wore in warmer weather, its removal was noted as soon as the cool air swept into his tunic - and forgotten just as fast.

It was only when he moved to drape it over her that she flinched.

Tywin stopped and questioned her a little too sharply. "Are you injured? They told me you assured them you were unharmed."

Her eyes went wider, but flicked away from his, she spoke confidently but distracted.

"I am filthy, my lord," she said.

He flexed his jaw to dissipate his annoyance. Of everything that had happened, Sansa was more concerned with the state of his clothing. Tywin was slipping further into anger every time her words repeated in his mind.

 _I am filthy, my lord._

 _I am filthy..._

Tywin's stomach clenched, then sank in queasiness as he thought of the man now sitting a cell. He gathered the fury that was bubbling to the surface, controlled the rage that threatened to consume him.

"Sansa, _tell me true_ , did he..." He huffed a light breath and quirked his eyes in unguarded concern, "...hurt you... _intimately_?"

Without hesitation she shook her head. An act that doused his anger, and rekindled his annoyance. Tywin disregarded his wife's apprehension and draped her in the warmth she so obviously needed.

"Put your arms through." He held the sleeves out, giving her room to maneuver within the doublet. Once she was set, he pulled the garment, and his wife, into his body to add to the heat. Sansa tensed at their closeness, she avoided his eyes, blushed a colour he could see through bruising on her face, and offered her words as matter of fact as she could.

"I... Before... I made water on myself, my lord."

She flexed her jaw at her embarrassment, shuffling the pain radiating from the side that was swollen, and waited for him to step away. She was pulled even closer. It was only natural to rest the unhurt side of her face over the center of his chest while at the same time fist the fabric at the middle of his tunic. There was hot breath on the top of her head and a perturbed serious voice that followed.

"Don't be stupid."

The air caught in her throat, she wanted to scream and strike him with the fists she had already made. _Stupid_. He dare call her _stupid_ after what she lived through, after _everything_ she had survived?

 _I made water on myself._

Revelations were never convenient and, like any truth, they were rarely kind. She _was_ being stupid. Covered top-to-toe in the blood of others because someone wanted her life, and she was more concerned about what he would think of her because her body reacted to fear. Sansa leaned harder into the man holding her. Her man. Her husband.

The longer they stayed like that the more she felt she was absorbing his strength and confidence. Whether that was the truth of it, it hardly mattered. She felt better, stronger and she would take it gladly.

"Close your eyes, Sansa."

His voice was sudden but mesmerizing, his breath on the top of her head was reassuring, the heat of his body where her cheek rested was lulling. She couldn't _stop_ her eyes from closing.

"Do you remember anything the man said?"

Sansa took a deep breath and nodded into his tunic. "Yes."

Tywins thumbs brushed tiny circles on her back, they were muted by the doublet, but they were there all the same. She pressed into him a little more, and he was again guiding her with his tone.

"Sansa, tell me what he said."

It came out in a torrent. "He knew who I was. He said that he was going to..." She twisted her fingers in his tunic and sounded so very angry. "...Rape me and kill me."

She felt Tywin hold her tighter and breathe heavier in her hair, but underlying that, her husband was shivering. He was warm, and the spasms didn't start at his center like they usually did on cold nights when they would initially crawl under the furs of their bed. These were in his arms, like he was stopping himself, like he was restraining something inside.

"Is that all?" The shiver was in his voice too.

"He told me I would scream for him." It was a hoarse whisper.

Her eyes shut tight and she fought a losing battle with her tears.

"Lyol saved me," she choked. "He died saving me."

Her husband did not flinch, did not tense at the mentioned loss of a man he knew for most of his life. He spoke in a tone that was as cold as the room they stood in.

"As he should."

The shivering ended.

Sansa swallowed her sadness then, _all_ of it. She bit back her tears and bottled them for herself. _She_ would mourn the man, _she_ would spend time and thoughts on the man who saved her, she would do it without Tywin.

As she should.

However, in their current reality, standing in that room with him, Sansa would be the wife of the Great Lion of Casterly Rock. She would be who she was expected to be and, truthfully, who she _needed_ to be at that time.

Tywin pulled away from her slightly, his hands on her elbows, his thumbs still drawing circles where they touched her. Sansa opened her eyes at his movement. She looked up, looked at him squarely. He was angry, but that was in the background. There was tenderness there, she could easily see that too. In amongst all that though, there was something else, something she could not place directly.

It was not associated with anger or regard, it was more calculating.

There was a gain or advantage presenting itself to him and she just had to wait for him to present it to her as well.

His wife was not afraid. She was not intimidated by her would-be murderer. That meant she was an asset in regards to leverage against the man, and whomever sent him.

Sansa was his edge.

"The man will die. I want you there."

His voice was soft, his touch remained gentle, and it was all in contrast to what was spoken. The words were tricky, her husband didn't give her a directive, he gave her a choice - but _not_ a choice at the same time.

He found himself taken by the big blue eyes that stared at him, considered him. Two points of sky surrounded by carnage. It was a vision that was terribly beautiful, and when her voice rang, sweet and steel, he had to blink his way out of her charm.

"Of course, my lord."

...

..

.


	16. Winter V

**This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence related to torture and execution. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.**

...

..

.

Sansa had been bathed and dressed for hours before she was summoned by Lord Tywin. Sitting behind the desk in their apartments, she took no real notice of the sun as it dropped into evening through the windows around her. The only indication of time and its continuation was the presentation and removal of plates containing barely touched food and the refill of her heavily watered wine.

The quiet of the room enveloped her, tucked her into her thoughts and gave her peace from the horrors of that day.

Most of them.

In the silence her conscious played loud and rather persistent. Lady Sansa's focus remained on the tightly woven rush mat fastened to the floor in front of the desk. It was new. It smelled sweet and still held its natural gleam. It replaced the mat Lyol had bled his life into. She stared so intently for so long, her mind tricked itself into seeing the large crimson stain wick through and resurface even though it had been thoroughly scrubbed from the wood beneath.

Sansa continued to stare at the new rush mat.

Even the the quartet of Lannister guards - the deadliest men Lord Tywin employed, from only the most loyal and established houses - that had been placed within the room for specific protection said nothing to their usually approachable lady. Their emotional distance added to the somber mood, even if it was appropriate and appreciated.

The break in room's dreary atmosphere came with the announcement of Ser Kevan, and it was with him that Sansa made her way to a place in the Red Keep she truly feared. A place known only for suffering.

The place where her father began his end.

It was dark there, and constructed so far under the ground's natural frost line that with the presence of so many braziers and torches everything dripped wet, making the space even colder. It was a horrible place - but that was to be expected, she supposed. She was there for a horrible reason.

Their destination was dimly lit at the end of the passageway and as they approached, she could see the distinct cloak and armour of Ser Jaime.

Sansa greeted the Lord Commander without her usual dip of a curtsy. Various areas of her body were just starting to twinge in the pain she knew would only intensify in the next days. It was like her mind and body worked in tandem, unburying the cruelty of Joffrey and recalling how best to deal with the physical aftermath of violence. Her grim history suddenly becoming a cursed blessing.

Her courtesies, however, would never diminish.

"Ser Jaime," she said, smiling softly.

The tall man looked down at her with a smirk already in place, and drawled without any kind of sincerity, "Lady Sansa, I'm sorry to hear of your troubles." As if to accentuate his hollow candor, he raised a brow and finished, "I would offer to guard you myself, but I fear _that_ position is more hazard than it's worth."

It was an awkward jape at best, an outright insult at worst.

"It is a position that requires a _sword hand_."

Tywin emerged out of the shadows of the corridor. The words preceding him were aggressive and harsh, but spoken distracted, almost in passing.

If Ser Jaime was hurt by his father he didn't show it. His attention and his words stayed toward his father's wife.

"Surely you haven't been told this is the romanticpart of the castle?"

Lord Tywin removed the need for Sansa to answer.

"Lady Sansa's presence has been requested by _me_." And by his tone, it was evident the old lion was becoming annoyed.

Jaime turned his head to his father and threw hubris at the man. "For whatpurpose?"

Tywin lost whatever distraction he had, focusing solely, fiercely, on his son. "In whatever capacity I deem necessary."

It was said through his teeth and Sansa knew Tywin was at the limit of his patience. Ser Kevan did too, as she felt him step ahead of her slightly. The move was covert, but she knew what he was doing and it warmed her in that cold, dank corridor.

"Father, you can't think it wise to invite your _wife_ here." Jaime kept his tone light, but his words were rather biting.

Whether it was one or a combination of things that enraged Lord Tywin, it would remain unknown; however, _something_ triggered him to roar in hate.

With speed and skill that slept in the old lion - that lulled a foolish few to misjudge him - he got the better of the younger man. He curled his hands behind Jaime's breastplate, where it gaped at the pits of his arms, and shoved him with such a force that it lifted the knight off his feet, only to come to a crashing halt against the slippery stone walls that flanked them in the passageway.

Ser Jaime had the breath knocked from him, Sansa could clearly hear his struggle to wheeze in air.

His father looked at him with eyes he had never witnessed being directed at him. Tyrion, yes, but him, never. They were wide, wild green and gold, and radiated the kind of frenzy that made his bowels threaten release.

Jaime Lannister feared for his life.

Tywin turned even more vicious toward his son, digging his forearm into his throat, growling more than speaking. "And _you're_ going to be the one to advise me about _wives_? Is that it?"

Their exchange displayed such a broad spectrum of old grudges and wounds, presented in so few words, that both men faltered in their stare. But it was a soft confident voice that disrupted the tension enough to allow for separation between them.

"Ser Jaime, I appreciate your concern. However, it is mychoice to be here." Sansa spoke in the sharp tone her husband preferred, but offered Jaime a tug at the corners of her lips to assure him she was speaking truthfully.

Jaime shook his armour straight and comfortable again, then looked at his father for confirmation. He was rewarded with the same wrathful look as before.

"I'll not be a part of this." Jaime coughed out, still reeling from hitting the wall.

Tywin spoke to his son with the same disinterest he started with. "Go see to the safety of the King, Lord Commander."

Ser Jaime didn't spare her a glance, but even in the blackness of their surroundings, she was able to see the fury on his face as he swept past she and Ser Kevan.

Kevan was the one to usher her into the small dark room, following Tywin's lead.

The only light was that of four large torches along one side of the room and two oil lamps set on a narrow wooden shelf on on the other side. Under that shelf Sansa could see a row of buckets; what was in them remained a mystery, of which she wasn't about to inquire.

Although, what truly made her teeth clench, as well as the hand on Ser Kevan's arm, was what she saw in the middle of the room.

There was a heavy wooden table that looked to have been through battle. It was scarred and gouged to a degree that even her darkest imagination could not fathom the cause. Bent over the end of the table was a man. As they had entered the room they walked in behind the man, and it afforded her a view she had to physically swallow back the scandal for.

Completely without clothes and his legs spread, she could see every single intimate part of a man she had only ever seen on one body, and thankfully her husband had the foresight to avoid her eyes while she adjusted her sensibilities.

The man was bound, that became clear as she was guided to the side of the room painted in shadows. His thighs had been lashed with a great amount of rope to legs on the table that seemed there only for that purpose. His arms were extended painfully out to the sides and tied under the table, but she could not see exactly how.

He looked to be tensing against his restraints, testing their hold on him. Aside from his head turning direction and his legs bending below the knees, he was immobilized.

Sansa involuntarily shuddered as her mind slid back to the memory of the woman who had once been her mother and the horror she had been though.

 _...lashed me to the end of a table and took their turns. Boltons_ and _Freys..._

Again she found herself adjusting her sensibilities, but when the man spoke, _the sour man_ , it was as though her thoughts found voice.

"You mean to fuck me then?"

The sour man smiled and laughed his mocking words to her husband even though he could not see him, and Sansa watched them roll off Tywin like rain would oiled canvas.

She felt fear then.

It was absurd, and she tried to piece it together. Her terror was no longer a threat, he would die, of that she was sure. Ser Kevan stood impassive, watching his brother with careful consideration. Lord Tywin was steely and unmoving, as was his natural demeanour. But in concentrating on his eyes, Sansa felt the comprehension slide flush with the fear she carried.

They were dead.

It was something she hadn't seen since her wedding night, and it terrified her just as much years later.

Tywin pulled his short sword from where it laid at his hip, and the sound of steel kissing its way out of tooled leather was eaten by the thick walls. Instead of being tremendous and beautiful, the sound was ominous and greasy - like snake about to strike.

She watched the blade catch the flickering torch and lamp light for only a moment, until Tywin laid it along the length of the sour man's spine.

The tip rested against the base of his neck, and every breath her attacker inhaled caused the maliciously honed point to scrap and cut at the bulge of skin gathered at his nape. The noise of it clear in the tiny room. The heavy guard of the sword laid at the top of the man's backside where he was bent over the horrible table, the exquisitely ornate gold lions on either side bit into his flesh where their open maws bared teeth and where the fur on the manes came to points.

The Great Lion left his steel where he arranged it, stepped back and started to pull on tight-fitting black leather gloves.

He answered the sour man then, with a voice from the Stranger himself.

" _Yes_."

Sansa watched the smile on the sour man's face flounder at that one small word. It gave her a rush of satisfaction and a pang of dreadful anxiousness, equally.

Tywin had vision for nothing save the flesh in front of him. The walls of the room dimmed to a void, the people standing within blurred to insignificance. His mind retreated to blackness and he had to fight himself to want for information from the meat, not just fear and blood.

The meat hurt her, hurt _them_ , and it would die for that action alone, but he needed to know who sent it - who wanted what was _his_ , for they would suffer too, more so.

The lion's pulse slowed to a calm as he reached for the blade left resting. He gripped it like a lover, an embrace tender and thoughtful. Tywin lifted it to a slight angle, the top third of steel remaining flat on the flesh, the point digging in just enough to give him a taste of ecstasy: a tiny pool of red and hiss of pain from the meat beneath it.

The reaction made Tywin blink in flutters, made him breathe deep the fear the flesh was sweating out. It made him grin.

With a gentle pivot of his wrist, the old lion brought his sword to its edge. The act earning him more fear, more pain and just a little more blood.

Sansa was taken back to a time and place of love, such an odd contrast to the room of imminent death that was her actuality. She could see her father sitting in the godswood, oiling Ice under the great weirwood. She could see him smiling as her small child-self sat before him.

"Father, is a sword always sharp?" She had asked as she looked toward the great sword that was surely the length of two of her.

Eddard Stark had looked at his daughter with eyes that pronounced good and adoration, with eyes Sansa never doubted in her childhood, in the North. When she was but merely a babe, her father's eyes spoke words of comfort and told stories of heroes.

He smiled at her with those eyes.

"Not always," he had answered. "A blade's sharpness defines its purpose." Her father had started to wrap the massive sword in cloth, continuing his lesson, "Some edges are duller, for a chop..." Sansa giggled when he brought his flattened hand down like an axe, demonstrating the action he was speaking of. "...and some are sharp, for slicing."

Her father didn't have a gesture for that action, but as Sansa watched Tywin's sword sink into the shallow flesh near the spine of the sour man - using no more force than the weight of the steel itself and the direction her husband was pulling it - she suspected that _that_ was what he spoke of.

"Tell me who sent you, and you will meet your end quickly."

Tywin spoke the words without inflection, and they seemed to take a lifetime to reach the air. The time it took for him to drag his sword the length of the man's back. The steel left a line of tiny crimson beads from the base of the man's neck to the top of his arse. The wound was nothing gruesome or flowing, nothing that would allow the man to die quickly.

"I've not a fuckin' thing for you. You best kill me." The sour man was mouthing bravado, but his voice wavered at the end.

"Soon," was all the old lion said, distracted and shallow.

As before, Tywin returned his sword to rest along the man's spine, but he rolled it to the opposite edge and drew a crimson line to the man's other arse cheek. At the end of the bloody line, Tywin swayed slightly toward the man, the point of his blade carried his weight and dug into the ample flesh where it had come to a stop on the man's backside.

The resistance was only momentary before Lord Lannister felt the meat give way to his steel. He could hear a gritted scream intensify with every fraction he pushed into it. He leaned into the slow invasion until he met his goal - bone - midway in the span of the pelvis. It was the stop he wanted, and kept steady pressure on the hilt of his sword so the meat could not get used to the pain.

"Tell me."

With his words, Tywin gave a gentle twist to the embedded blade, feeling the tip dig and scrape further into its resistance and the flesh gaping where the turn held the wound open. The red began to trickle, and with it was the emergence of power.

What was a man but the flow of his blood? One could be whole, and die all the same by way of a small nick, by an arrow, _or bolt_.

" _Who_ sent you?"

Lord Tywin reversed his twist, relieving the pressure in the man's arse cheek.

" _No_..." the sour man all but hissed.

The old lion took his cue, turning the blade in the other direction. He noticed the sheen of sweat appearing on the lower back displayed before him, and knew he had to move on if he was to push the dead man past his tolerance. He removed the blade without ceremony, the yelp it produced was sweeter than any song.

Without preamble, Tywin placed the sword's flat tip on the tailbone of the man and proceeded to drag the hefty point down the center of the man's arse. Making its way, painfully, to the goal that was obscenely exposed in that position.

Tall tales and mummers farces paint torture as a villain's diatribe, a pause to allow the hero to plan escape and defeat of the villain. The reality was that there is no introduction, no dialogue to accompany the violence, and even less recognition of who was indeed the hero.

Tywin plunged a thumbs length of steel in the most unmentionable part of the man, causing a piercing scream to be let loose from his lungs.

Sansa caught herself before her breathing became too shallow, before her nerves overtook her mind's control to leave her standing, or even able to bear what she knew was coming - what was going to continue. She had been witness to all forms of torture in Joffrey's court, even death, but this was personal. This man had schemed and killed just to see her savaged and killed herself. She had to know his motivation, his reason why.

The fact that she _had_ to know was something her prior self would never even consider, let alone participate in. Yet, as she stood in the shadows watching a man suffer, she couldn't help but feel proud of herself.

A grisly accomplishment.

Kevan caught her eye then, as the sour man writhed and wailed under the infliction of more steel biting and cutting its way through bowel. His eyes weren't the kindly green she had grown used to, they were hard like Tywin's, but familiar, like when Robb would escort her through groups of men in the training yards of Winterfell.

 _Protected by lions_ , her mind scoffed.

Sansa didn't smile at him, as was her normal course, she simply gave a quick nod to let him know she fared well and watched him turn his attention back to his brother.

The sour man was sweating profusely, she could see. His face was set with his eyes screwed shut against the pain, and a continuous droning whimper emanated from behind his spittle flecked lips.

Sansa had always been proud of her height, it made her feel older when she was a girl. Her height gave her presence when she stood hand-on-arm with her husband. She was also, now, at an advantageous angle to see every sliver of steel disappearing into the bent body of the man before her.

She loathed her height then.

Tywin was barely halfway into the man when he opened his grip gingerly on the sword in order to test its balance. The blade seemed likely to stay, so he let go completely and watched the man agonize. The sour man screamed something desperate, like a wounded animal, as his lower legs twitched and lifted in a sad effort to relieve the horrendous pressure inside him.

Lord Tywin walked around the table until he was looking at the man and droned, " _Who_ sent you?"

Through whimpering noises and chattering teeth the sour man said one word: " _No_."

Her husband merely nodded, almost politely, then turned to resume his stance behind the man. Once in place, Tywin pulled the hilt of his sword with a vicious force, and in an instant the blade was removed completely.

The shriek that the action produced would haunt her, she knew. But it was the sound of blood and other fluids hitting stone floor, coupled with the stench that eventually hit her that made Sansa gag loudly. She was trying to suck in fresh air, but there was none in the room. Through teary eyes she watched Tywin lay the blood and feces coated sword on the man's back again, and noticed the sour man had lost consciousness.

It was a reprieve for them both.

"Wake him."

Tywin commanded his brother without looking at him, then walked to his wife and offered her his arm.

She had gained control of herself at that point, but accepted his proffered arm anyway. He lead her out of the room, into to the dark passage beyond, and with a flick of his fingers Tywin ordered the sentries to step away, turning his attention to the stoic young woman before him.

"I will have you escorted back, my lady."

It was kind, but it wasn't the husband she knew. This man was distracted and clearly making an effort to focus on her.

Her hand clasped his forearm a little tighter. "I will have _you_ escort me, my lord."

His brows pinched at her words and he spoke in a sarcastic tone that told her she neglected the obvious. "My time is rather occupied."

"As is mine."

Sansa made the statement and watched her lion search her face for a frivolous want of approval. There was nothing of the kind. Sansa made the decision for herself, not for her husband, and not to have the pleasure of watching a man die. Only for the closure her mind demanded in knowing she had, once again, survived. That even with all the death of that day, there was life too.

His eyes drifted the length of her body, met hers again, then gave a curt nod before turning them both toward the small dark room.

As she left the side of her husband to resume her place in the shadows, Sansa could hear that the sour man had indeed woken, but barely. He was moaning in pain, and slipping back into darkness when Ser Kevan placed a small vial under his nose. Whatever it contained caused the man to snap open his eyes and groan louder.

Tywin watched for a few heartbeats. Looking bored, he walked to one of the buckets on the floor, picked it up by the rope handle and dumped the white slushy contents over the sweaty shivering back of the man - and, in turn, the blade that remained where it had been left.

As soon as the partially melted snow hit the man, he wailed in shock and pain, pulling and struggling against the ropes that bound him in place.

Lord Tywin casually walked to the where the man's head was thumping into the table, pressed his knuckles into the wet and vomit near his mouth and growled, "Shall we continue?"

The ever-defiant man smiled is sour mouth at her husband and Sansa prepared herself to witness violence.

True to her estimation, she watched Tywin's fisted right hand lift high and come down, his body twisting along with it, straight into grinning yellow teeth. She heard thumps and cracks as the old lion swung out his rage, but could not discern what was face hitting wood, or teeth breaking loose, or what were facial bones cracking under heavy punches.

The man's face changed with each strike: his nose moved, his mouth went from yellow to split red, to gaps of black. His eyes went from alert to hazy delirium, and just as they were tipping into blank again, Tywin stopped, scooped up a handful of snow and wiped the blood and flecks of meat from the knuckles of his glove.

He had moved behind the man once more and, again, there was no preamble before he gripped his sword, shook most of the snow off, leaned back on his furthest heel, lined up and thrust forward savagely. Burying half of the steel into the most private part of _any_ man.

"We'll start where we left off." The words were almost smiled out.

Ser Kevan had hold of the man's hair and kept the vial in front of his face - whether it was doing anything was unknown as he was no longer breathing through his severely broken nose.

Sansa heard her husband repeat his question and heard Kevan calmly trying to convince the man to talk. It was opposing dynamics and Sansa could only imagine that it would be overwhelming regardless of circumstance. But under it all, the screaming, the begging, the questions and coaxing, she could hear one tiny word.

" _Keera_."

It was faint, and said like a dream. Sansa had to focus on both syllables just to know it was a word being spoken. _No, not a word, a name._ Her mind told her. The sour man was chattering what teeth he had left, begging for death when his eyes were shiny, then muttering _Keera_ over and over when his eyes went cloudy.

She realized he was dying. She also realized that Tywin had no intention of letting the man die quickly, whether he told him what he wanted to know or not. Her husband was existing for the fear pouring off and out of the body before him. And it saddened her that she was not appalled.

Her feet worked on their own and she watched the gory scene get closer. Ser Kevan looked at her in question, but backed away either out of station or intuition.

At that proximity, Sansa could see the fine quakes rippling under the skin of the man; spasms that intensified in waves for every sliver of honed blade that entered him. But he had quieted at her approach, the nattering had ceased and he was staring at her, blinking slowly, his eyes wavering in their focus.

" _Keera_?" It was so full of hope.

Sansa smiled an affirmation at the man and instantly felt a pang of guilt, but it was quickly eaten by the knowledge that he held information that mattered more to her than a delusion of identity. She reached out to him, brushed her fingers over his sweaty, bloody brow, and he responded by whimpering in his throat - then screeching in pain as Tywin fucked him with a merciless amount of steel.

She kept her eyes on him, kept petting his brow until he refocused again.

Sansa smiled then, gentle, motherly, and tucked a his loose hair behind his ear. Her touch matched her smile and the sour man had no defense.

Rubbing her thumb at his temple, she spoke sweetly, asking, "Who sent you?"

He was breathing large huffs, blinking at her. Then he closed his eyes, lifted his head a tiny amount into her hand and smiled, broken and grotesque.

"Queen Cer-"

He was snuffed out in a painful jerk and gurgle. Tywin had plunged the entirety of the sword into the man before the name could be spoken fully.

It did not matter, the three people within that room heard. They heard and they knew the implications. Just as each one knew their duty.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lord and Lady stepped through the doors of their apartments in the Tower of the Hand and Tywin immediately stepped to the side bar and poured them each wine. But as he handed his wife her cup, she let it drop to the floor as she rushed to the basin at the wash station by the servants door and began retching.

Tywin rushed to her side, gripped her firmly yet gently around the waist and rescued her hair from settling in the gathering pool of vomit. He could feel each purging spasm course through her and adjusted his hand, taking it from her waist in order to rub her back lightly.

"You held yourself though all of _that_ , and choose _now_ to truly be ill?"

It came out as a reprimand, and quite honestly he meant it as one. But she was shivering and quaking too hard in her fits of sickness and was not able to answer him. Neither did Tywin press her.

He waited.

Comforting her, caring for her while she trembled and gagged, stroking her hair and back, fetching a cup of water and a cloth to wipe her mouth once he was confident she could stand unassisted. He ran the back of his hand over her forehead, and while she was hot from her efforts she was not sticky in sweat or shaking in fever.

Cupping her uncoloured cheek and tilting her face at him, Tywin stared at her.

And still he waited.

Sansa became painfully shy then, a maid once more, delicate and ignorant... and keeping a secret.

"I'm... with child, my lord." It was little more than a whisper.

For some reason she could not meet his eyes, like she had just told him something terrible and not that she was carrying his babe.

"I have suspected."

Her husband's words were gentle, but said in his tone of perpetual suspicion. She snapped her confused eyes to him, asking him _How?_ without speaking a single word.

Tywin felt his countenance soften as he brushed a gentle hand along her jaw line, then let it drift down her neck, his fingers spread wide and stroked softly through their descent over her collar, down the side of her breast, where the journey ended. They both watched him cup its weight in his palm before squeezing the tiniest of amounts.

Sansa winced at the tender pressure and raised her eyes to find him already looking expectant.

"You are changing. I noticed." His words were still kind, his suspicion was still prominent. "You smell different, you _taste_ different. _I noticed_."

She blushed hot and red at his words, at what he meant, and again couldn't keep his gaze. His hand travelled a reverse path and caressed the untouched side of her jaw once more.

"Look at me, my lady." He waited until her wide eyes settled before he spoke again. "How long?"

Her breath quickened against her will, and she said, "Not yet four moons, my lord." Like an admission of guilt.

Tywin frowned. "Why would you keep this from me?" His voice held more concern than annoyance. "You need care, Sansa."

Her first inclination was to question why he would allow her to witness a man's torture and death if her care was such a priority, but stopped short of speaking her petulance when she remembered the way he looked at her, covered in waste and gore in the small room. How he looked at _all_ of her.

He knew then. More than that, _she_ knew all along.

 _...it is my choice to be here._

Her mind drifted to his question - _why?_ \- and it stirred in her a deep, pitiful sadness. One that she had to get into grip before she could even try to speak.

He watched her eyes pool and gloss, and knew the answer before she uttered a sound.

"I wanted to be sure..." her voice cracked, but her tears remained unshed. "I didn't want it to be like the last time."

The sincerity of her awful honesty transformed his frown to a grim line. He could feel her jaw working under his fingers and Tywin brushed his thumb over the stressed and tensed muscles, but she pulled away. Pulled back completely, turned and walked to the window.

There was nothing to see outside. With no moon it was black as pitch, and what parts of the paned glass that were not capped in frost only served to reflect the room behind her. It wasn't the view she cared about, it was the cold without the wind. She could sometimes feel it call to her, the frost and ice, there was a familiar comfort in it, something she felt even more since she knew Tywin's seed had found purchase.

Sansa leaned on the stone block sill, tilting her face as close to the glass as she could without touching it. She watched the frost widen and melt to wet from the heat of her closeness. It was sorry and beautiful all at the same time, and in catching herself in the black mirror, she could not help but make the same comparison to her life.

A moment of melancholy in an existence she knew was better than most.

 _It could have been worse_. She had heard that more than once, said by people observing her life from a position outside of it. A phrase so ignorantly flicked off the tongue, like it was advice that carried both weight and usefulness.

She watched in the cold black shine, her husband, her lion, walking to a position beside her. They were side by side, but facing opposite directions. No matter the angle, his face read like a book - he was about to command.

"You will leave for Casterly Rock on the morrow." His voice was soft, but as predicted commanding all the same.

What Sansa could not control in her own life she had a chance of protecting in the one she carried, and she would do so with every drop of blood that made her.

"No, I won't."

It was spoken kindly to his reflection. His reflection spoke back, angry and tired.

"Yes you will, Sansa. I gave you limited check to build yourself into a lion of strength, but you forget your _place_ , my lady. You _will_ obey me."

She marveled in the glass a while, at the detail of his whiskers swaying in movement as his jaw flexed beneath them.

"Will you be accompanying me, my lord?"

"Of course not."

The sneer in his voice was not unexpected. However, in light of the events that day, she could not tell if he was being willfully obtuse or if he was as afraid as she was. And it was _her_ fear that ignited her own snarled voice.

"Where will I be safer?" Sansa looked down and away from the glass, his hand hung strong and slack at his side became her peripheral focus. "Where will you have total control of those who come in contact with your unborn child: _here_ with you, or in the _Westerlands_?"

They were close enough that Sansa could hear his teeth stutter in their grind against one another.

It did not stop her.

 _With every drop of blood that made her._

"She is the _Queen_ , Tywin. Distance is not an obstacle."

In the position they stood they could not make eye contact. Instead, the old lion leaned toward his wife's ear and presented a menacing growl.

"You think to talk to me like I am some sort of _fucking lack-wit_?"

Sansa straightened again and went back to observing through the reflection world, the one outside made of night and cold but somehow warmer.

"No, Tywin, you are every bit the monster you have _ever_ been."

Her words were as bitter as they were calculated.

He scoffed caustically, aiming to get a rise out of her. "Is that it then? I am a _monster_?"

Taking a deep breath, Sansa let her posture relax. There was no fight in her, he could keep his bait. If he truly wanted her gone she would be, and she would be a dutiful wife to her husband and heed his decision. But she would at least say her peace and answer him honestly.

"No, not entirely," she said gently. Not affording him a look to go with it. "Just as I am not entirely what you have made me." Mustering a little more strength to her words, Sansa asked, "Tell me, my lord, when I confirmed I was with child, were you happy because we created life together, or because if I bore you a son he would provide you greater gains?"

He didn't answer. He didn't expect him to. She also knew, without having to see him, that he was clenching his jaw again. Sansa continued regardless, in her soft natural tone.

"Time has gifted us many things, my lord. Changing who we truly are is _not_ one of them."

He was unbearably quiet, but did not move from the his place beside her. On one side, there was an almost startling heat cascading off her husband. That heat was mingling with the bitter cold of the window on the other side. Each wave met in the middle, met at the center of her, creating a strange cradle of warmth.

Without sparing a glance, Sansa reached out the hand closest to Tywin and swept her knuckles down the length of his arm until her forefinger was brushing over his smallest. She hooked her finger around his and held on, her focus still somewhere outside, within the mirror-life ticking by in the large window.

Tywin held her finger gently, as was his way in these times, then squeezed a tiny amount.

" _Good,"_ he whispered thickly, before letting go and leaving her to her contemplation.

The Great Lion would keep his family close.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It had been six days after the death of the sour man that Sansa felt able to bare herself to her husband, allowing him to see the marks that had been left. The ones hidden under clothes, the ones that caused her wake in a fright until she was wrapped up in warmth and strength and lulled back into slumber.

The marks along her jaw had darkened into almost black, her eye on that side carried some of the colour as well, but it was the finger shaped bruising around her throat that made Tywin simmer in his ire and wish to make the already dead man suffer and die repeatedly.

His wife wasn't afraid to let people see what she had lived through, it was something of an open taunt. She didn't powder herself or wear her hair completely loose to cover her wounds, like other women might - _some men as well_. She had steel under her porcelain and he admitted to himself that that only made her more desirable in his eyes.

He had been in front of the fire, on the bench in the sitting room when she padded her slippered feet around to stand in front of him. She was draped in only an oversized crimson robe. Her face was serious, but kind. Her hair was unbound.

His heart sped.

She seemed to like wearing his robe, and he was well past the want or care to chastise her for donning it anymore. He could smell her in it, faintly, every morning when he wore it, and he would be no more than a liar if he tried to convince himself that he did not enjoy having her linger on him. The thought made his lust sink and pool at his groin, but that was instantly extinguished when she shed the garment.

He did not anticipate... He was not _prepared_...

His wife did not speak, and Tywin was thankful. He would not have been able to even acknowledge conversation, let own participate in it. The bruising was something he expected, what he didn't expect was that they would be in the clear identifiable shape of the dead man's _gods-damned hands_.

They were everywhere on her and it felt like they had suddenly become functional again and made to choke the staring lion. Purple-black hands painted her breasts, her arms, her ribs, her hips, and _gods_ , her inner thighs. The finger marks on her throat were a prelude to everything else. Pycelle told him she had been thoroughly welted, but failed to mention she lived with her attacker's hands still on her.

Sansa stood motionless, with just the steady lift and dip of her breasts as she breathed and watched him. He raised his hands to her, to her ribs, and placed his fingers with a feather's touch over the bruising there. The marks were thicker than the hands that covered them - his fingers were long, as were his palms, and they did not match the large blunted prints on his wife.

Tywin found himself swallowing his boiling fury, he felt his back cool in the sweat that broke out, but what slashed and bled him was the truth that greeted his vision when he swept his eyes over the soft curve of her belly - not yet a bump - to the wiry auburn curls at her juncture. Through the fair red, against the pale of her skin, were long jagged scratches. He looked closer and keened an almost silent noise when he saw they were on her mound as well as on her thighs.

He curled his shoulders as his chest ached and he fought his vicious want to kill. Instead he placed his lips over a few of the many scrapes emerging from her thatch and kissed her. Then, moving one of his hands, he brushed his fingertips over the lines of scabs, again barely caressing her, as though his touch might gouge her deeper.

Tywin was so wrapped up in his own reaction to her harm that he did not notice his wife's change in demeanor.

His contact was gentle, _too_ gentle. As if Tywin thought she was beyond damaged and fragile. A dried flower whose petals would turned to dust if handled any more than hardly.

Her husband pitied her, again.

She loathed him for it, again.

If she was causing him to consider her that way, it would be something she would put an end to.

When he peered up at his wife, she was wearing a look of anger. It not only served to confuse him, but it washed him in embarrassment - a state so foreign, and so frustrating, that he became angry as well.

"I am _not_ broken."

She was not nettled, nor was she sad, her statement was leaning terribly close to admonishment.

"This, I know."

His was a growl, unmistakably feral.

This time there was no question, Sansa was indeed chastising the old lion. "Then why are you wallowing in marks that will fade?"

How ridiculous. His young wife, naked save dainty slippers, upbraiding the Hand of the King as though he were a chambermaid arranging gowns in the wrong order.

"I _am not,_ " he warned.

"You are."

Sansa did not raise her voice, she didn't have to. When her eyes reflected disappointment she all but ruined him, if only for a heartbeat, and she knew this.

"He took nothing from me, yet you act as though you've been robbed."

Sansa watched her husband deepen both his scowl and his breathing, he remained voiceless even when his eyes became sharp and absolutely focused.

On her.

"I am _yours_ , my lord," she stated with every bit of confidence. "Perhaps you'd care to remember that."

Tywin stood bolt upright in one fluid motion, looked down at his wife - the proud beautiful creature in front of him - indestructible, and _his_.

 _...remember that._

It was in no more than a blink that Tywin snatched her around the waist and pulled her flush against him, hard. She bleated in surprise but did not waver in her seriousness. He would have smirked at her, but his mind was still influenced by his ego and could not enjoy the moment.

He knew her breasts were sensitive, but it did not stop her from rocking and bucking into his body - as much as his one-armed grip would allow. Instead she reached up and dug her fingers into the fabric at his doublet, attempting to pull his face downward. He let her, mashing their mouths together as a result. It was almost too hard, too violent, however Sansa was unrelenting. She clawed her way up his neck and around to his nape, digging her nails into the skin under his collar and up the back of his head.

She was marking _him_.

He would gladly walk into council with her passion openly displayed on him. He pulled her into him harder and rolled his hips at the thought. The friction was sweet, his cock pressed in his breeches, against her. His hands felt the soft pale skin his mind was begging the rest of him to touch.

His need was prominent. His need was _her_.

 _...remember that._

Tywin crouched down and moved his mouth down Sansa's neck, over the bruises there. She grunted at the pressure on them but stayed rooted, encouraging his own marks - which he sucked and nipped into place. Whatever mistreatment that was illustrated on her body was forgotten, it had no place between them or with them individually.

They each were stronger than one man's failure, and together they were surely invincible.

His mouth moved further down her neck, over her collarbone to her tender breasts. Tywin was gentle with her there, using soft kisses and being careful to not even scrape his side whiskers on her skin. Sansa brought one of her hands to cradle the back of his head and the other she used to stroke the side of his face that was tilted upward. He closed his eyes at her touch, but did not stop his light, open-mouthed kisses around the side and under her teat.

Tywin gave one last kiss to her breast before his hands met her hips, and he moved her like a dance, until they had traded positions. With slight pressure he wordlessly guided her to sit where he had been, and began removing his clothing.

Lifting his tunic over his head, his body shook in arousal at the feel of his wife palming his cock through his breeches. He was stuck in a laughable pose, mid-strip, groaning with every stroke and tug Sansa laid on him. He could not see her but he knew what she was doing: unlacing him, freeing his semi-hard prick.

His hands were over his head, his tunic still covered his arms and face, but Sansa was transfixed on the low-set breathing in his abdomen, how his lower back curved toward her when she paid his cock attention, how the muscles in his stomach went taut then relaxed with each pull and unlace her fingers managed. Her husband's body was a myth to his age, and she took pleasure in that lie. With his cock freed, she held the stiffening flesh in her palm - did not stroke it, did not grasp it.

Tywin regained function of his mind and finished removing his tunic. Looking down the slant of his body, he was greeted with a sight he would never tire of.

Sansa moved her face close to his groin and pressed her lips into the curls at the base of his cock, then smiled as she watched it lengthen and harden further. She felt his hand brush through her hair then fist gently. The air shivered out of him when she placed her slightly opened lips against the midpoint of his shaft and kissed that part of him too.

She repeated her affection twice more before she heard him speak.

"No, enough."

His voice was just a whisper, but his hands possessed every confidence as they pushed her back with care. He stripped his boots and breeches off, slowly, and watched her watch him. Watched her brow lift in silent in front of her, sitting on his heels, her knees caressing each side of him, Tywin used a hand on the side of her face, bending her forward slightly, pulling her to him and kissed her waiting mouth.

This time their kiss played slowly, deeply, without an element of war.

Her fingers dug into the flesh at his ribs, making his cock twitch and his tongue want more of hers. Using the guide of his body as he sat up taller on his knees, she descended to her back. He leaned and led until she was mostly laying flat on the seat of the bench, until he fit against her like gears working - teeth in their path of contact. Sansa legs loosely wrapped into their place around his waist, her heels resting above his arse waiting to encourage and guide him.

Tywin created space between their bodies, his face still hovering above hers, and slid his hand to the furrow of her cunt. Even with a light touch at the top of her slit he felt she was slick and ready, and both moaned when he continued his path over her sensitive bump to the heat at her entrance.

She blinked wildly when he pressed one finger into her, and shut her eyes altogether when he added another and started fucking her at a pace he knew she liked. The wet noise of his fingers working inside her and the dry airy babbling spilling from her lips made him burn. It added fuel and ignited him from the inside.

He sat up higher, created a larger gap, removed his fingers from her and opened his mouth in an attempt to communicate.

"Put your h-"

The words, and all thought, were lost in the air he pushed out. Sansa knew exactly what she wanted, what _he_ wanted, and made the reach to grasp his cock. One delicate hand wrapped around the base of him, pulling back the skin, unsheathing him as she went, while the other hand stroked up over the tip. He was dry there still and the skin was silken on her fingers, allowing her hand a steady back-and-forth motion.

Sansa knew exactly how to make her husband pant.

 _The way he had taught her_.

He could not stop himself from fucking into her fists, grinding himself into her center with every push forward. He shut his eyes and let the sensation cascade over him. He felt her hands adjust his cock in line to enter her body, opened his eyes as her hands moved away, and took his girl in one solid thrust.

There was no tease, no play to achieve his depth within her. He claimed her with that one push forward. They both knew it.

Sansa arched her back and gasped a large breath when Tywin sank into her. His hands curled around her hips and held her in place as he set his rhythm, his fingers clamping their mark on her skin, ensuring more with every forceful shove his hips pressed forth. She only felt _him_ , on her, within her, and her world no longer existed outside the two of them. One of his hands ventured from her hip to her backside. He gripped a handful of flesh, again as a claim, as a physical testament to emotional ownership.

In that moment, _for_ and _of_ whom could be debated.

At first she wriggled in the excitement of his new gain, but it quickly switched to discomfort - not of his grasp, but in the flood of memory regarding whose hand was there previously.

Her mind started to panic.

 _The sour man_.

He was touching her there with the barest of fingertips, but she stiffened anyway. Didn't speak a word to tell him to stop, it was her eyes though, her eyes spoke clearly that his wife was reliving an event that was horrible.

Tywin draped himself over and stilled his movement inside her. His hand stayed in place, but stopped its tender stroking. He nudged his face and mouth into her hair, beside her ear, and brought his other hand up from her hip to cradle her crown.

He spoke low and calm, the same way he had approached her a handful of days prior to gather equally important information.

"Do you want me to stop?"

The question was not a provocation. He could hear Sansa swallow hard, could feel her nails dig into his flanks, and just as quick and discernible, he felt her body relax and heard her breathing deepen again.

"No," she said softly, no fear in it.

Sansa felt her husband start to lightly, gently, sweep his fingers over her hurt and terror. He did not move otherwise.

"You are _mine_ ," he breathed.

The words were there between them, half a murmur, half a growl, but they weren't necessarily a proclamation.

 _...remember that._

Tywin pulled almost all of his length out of her and his breath caught at the guttural moan she sang in his ear. He let his fingers drift from her arse to the wet that was leaking to meet them in the cleft connecting her most intimate parts, then pushed his cock into her once more. Slow and firm he thrust forward, and was rewarded with a sound from Sansa that rivaled the one she made due to its removal.

His fingers retreated, using the slickness he had pulled from where they were joined to alleviate any abrasion as he resumed brushing them against her tiny muscle. Sitting up taller, Tywin looked down at his wife, fucking and touching her with a slow and steady rhythm; watching her face, the rose of her cheeks blooming in their lust, her eyes in a half lidded stare, hazing more with every pet and thrust.

His eyes followed Sansa's hand as it made the familiar journey to pleasure herself and his body spiked in arousal, causing him to grind into her and push her fingers onto her clit with a heavier pressure. He wasn't thrusting then, more churning cumbered and his wife met every motion with a staggered moan.

His need for friction made itself known again, which transposed to hips rolling over and over.

Sansa's eyes were fluttering in response to the internal heat that was consuming her, the heat that was coiling tight where her body met her husband's. Every time she was filled the coil constricted, and as she teetered on the verge of breaking her limit she felt the tip of Tywin's finger slip into a place that was forbidden.

It did not hurt, but there was a pressure. A resistance that lent itself to the pleasure that had been building. She heard the loud mewl of noise, purely wanton and unbidden, before she knew it was ringing from her own mouth.

She was beautiful, his lady, his wife, _his_ ; the sight of her, the feel of her shivering inner clench, collectively forced his own resolve to fail outright. His finger slipped out as he fucked into her hard, his hips adding their own purple evidence to her inner thighs, watching her ride out her peak.

When she focused again, Tywin was near gasping.

Sansa was still heaving breaths, but for him everything stopped when she smiled - at him, through him. He knew nothing in that instant except that she was his and, in that fraction of life, he was truly hers.

His body slowed to a broken rhythm and shuddered as he reached his own peak, spilling rope after rope of seed. His eyes shut as his release crashed into him. He felt like he was losing control until strong, elegant hands anchored him. They clamped around the back of his neck and guided his head down to where his lips met hers - soft and swollen and waiting.

She kissed him like the fool he was; kissed him until his cock was soft and he was still fucking into her for every last instance of pleasure; until she pushed him out of her heat and he could feel their efforts run a hot river down her cleft to his fingers.

Until _he_ was purring and _she_ was humming in contentment.

Sweat dripped between their bellies, he felt it growing cold on his lower back, but he didn't want to move. Didn't want to break the trance he found himself in. Instead, he nuzzled into her neck and hugged himself into his wife to keep her, and the child, as warm as possible.

His child. _Their_ child.

Not equal parts lion, not this time. A lion and a direwolf. Just as deadly, just as fierce, unnerving all the same. He had planned the first, he knew what to expect, Lannister through and through. Now there was Stark, northern blood...

He inwardly chided his own stupidity - the babe was _his_ , just as she was _his_ , and that was all that mattered.

... _he was truly hers_.

...

..

.


	17. Winter VI

...

..

.

The betrothal and wedding of King Tommen and Lady Margaery was a prospect that had been drawn out and negotiated through moons upon moons of winter. It was not until his wife was made a target that Lord Tywin acted to seal an association with Highgarden.

Of course, the marriage of the King to the Tyrell girl was advantageous for the Reach, but in order to further solidify loyalty to House Lannister, the betrothal and wedding of Lord Randyll Tarly and Queen Cersei was announced at the same time. Lord Tarly's wife had become a victim of winter, of the cold that permeated even the most hearty. She was not the only highborn to perish in such a way, but she was the only one that served as a convenient favour to House Lannister.

Tarly was undeniably loyal to his liege, fiercely so… some would even say he was also the more dangerous of the two. A point to which Tywin had never paid much heed. Lord Randyll was a skilled soldier, to be sure, than what else could be said of a man whose only notable accomplishments were battles that were nothing if not winnable. Yet Lord Tywin needed that regimented soldier. He needed the man that could lead a vanguard with cold efficiency, absolute control, but also held an element of recklessness. Lord Tarly would present enough restriction to keep Cersei in line, but offer enough careless leeway to allow her the feeling of advantage she needed to remain focused and relatively effective in serving her father's interests.

Regardless of her folly toward his wife, Tywin would give her a purpose. Whether she would make anything of it remained to be seen.

The greater purpose, more the greater need, no matter how long he avoided it in his mind was that the betrothal and marriage would serve to occupy her in a place outside of King's Landing. It would remove Cersei'sfrom influence at the side of the King and greatly reduce the power her station and name possessed in a place she had come to rule.

The Tarly House was minor, a lesser vassal, and far below that which Tywin would normally even blink at. But there _was_ gain to be had, and for the safety of any potential heir to the West Sansa carried, he was willing to make that sacrifice. And to make it quickly.

His daughter fought and wailed and seethed as he knew she would, but her fire dimmed rather quickly when her lord father repaid her attitude in kind. As far as Cersei was concerned her ruse, her assassin, died with its secrets, and she would continue to believe in her own cleverness. The three that knew differently also knew the terrible repercussions toward House Lannister that would occur should the truth ever surface.

It was blatant between Lord and Lady Lannister: both the silence in regards to the attempt on Sansa's life, and the reasons for that silence.

One of those reasons grew daily inside its mother.

The tall length of Sansa's body hid the advancement of her pregnancy for quite awhile. It was only within the sixth moon that her belly started to look tellingly heavy with child.

Some women carried babes as no more than a burden, a tedious duty to the man they married and the House they married into. While some, much like his wife, wore this particularly extraordinary femininity like a declaration. It was a unknown strength until such a time as they conceived.

Lord Tywin would catch himself staring. Not that the pursuit was anything new by way of his wife; however, instead of tactfully marveling at her charm and beauty, he found himself carelessly seeing a life ahead of them. A child born to them. A legacy secured for them.

A foolish act, undoubtedly. He knew the danger of hope and promise, but as he found his mind journeying more as the moons slipped by he warily and begrudgingly resigned himself to being a buggering dolt.

She stood next to her husband as the feast honouring the marriage of Lord Tarly and the Queen Regent wound down to entertainment and dancing. It was striking just how much she was enjoying herself. King Tommen's wedding a fortnight prior seemed to quash the dark negativity surrounding these particular events for her and allowed her to approach this next one with an element of anticipation.

It did not matter _who_ was being wed, it mattered that it was outside her normal routine and something that brought her back to what made her happy in her childhood: pageantry and pretty things. Perhaps it was the fact that she was carrying a child herself that made her think that way. Although, with a forward path of thought, she found that aspect didn't much matter. Sansa found she could now wear a true smile and could bask in the happiness others openly displayed toward her.

Queen Margaery most of all.

Her friend had taken to spending more and more of her days within arm's length, and when King Tommen would join them, kittens and all, Sansa couldn't turn a blind eye to the parallels her friend was experiencing.

"I have become a mother without the marks to show for it," Margeary had confessed to her with a laugh.

And it was true. While Tommen was her husband, Margaery had replaced Sansa as the boy's surrogate mother.

Those were the types of thoughts and recollections Sansa approached with caution. She did care for the little king genuinely, and knew only too well the damage one can incur in being a pawn. But as they spent time together, the three of them, she subsequently discerned the Tyrells held an interest in Tommen at a high enough regard that their protection extended fiercely to the child-king. Whether their actual intent was something nefarious underneath would only be brought about if ever circumstances changed, and while the likelihood of that happening was little to none, Sansa was not so naive to dismiss the possibility altogether.

At times, life as a Lannister seemed no more than a series of contingency plans.

Sansa was tugged from her contemplation when she felt Tywin drift away from her side. His continued conversations regarding the securing of more winter stores in order to extend and resupply those in most need across the seven kingdoms, a seemingly unbreachable current.

Her husband had told her that as much as conflict invites reason to callously withdraw support from small folk as a method of warfare, that the aftermath also brought opportunity. One such was ensuring stores enough for keeps and lords alike. That it was the wiser measure in the throes of a desperate winter to provide supply when and where it was most needed. He emphasized that hardship lingered in memory, but acts of kindness in the time of hardship plant deeper and carry through to spring - when loyalty from able, productive bodies would be demanded once more.

In her mind, though it was a stretch, she felt that the spirit of Lord Tywin's _generosity_ was very much in line with that of her father's rule. Sansa had half expected an angry retort when she had teased him the evening prior, saying with a grin, "How very Northern of you, my lord." Tywin had only raised his brows and scoffed lightly at her cheek.

Deep in thought amidst boisterous celebration, Sansa did not notice her husband float farther away into the crowd - only then to be replaced by another set of vivid green eyes. This set in a face of golden beauty. But when the beauty spoke, the delicate façade was cracked, and a concealed ugliness exposed.

"Finally."

The former queen always had the ability to sling hate and judgment with only a few syllables, and Sansa was left looking at her dumbly, blinking out her attempt to focus and trying to decipher that one sneered word.

"Your Grace?" she inquired, genuine and unafraid.

Lady Sansa had long come to terms with Cersei's unapologetic disdain. It was something she had been fully aware of the night Blackwater burned, and it was something she, as she reflected now on her time as a ward, had been blind to when she was initially betrothed to Joffrey. And for every sliver of her that wanted to strike with words and actions against the woman that tried to have her removed from the world, Sansa was sated in the larger gain. The one that can only be obtained through patience and forward thought.

 _Family_...

She was led back to the conversation at hand by bitterness and vitriol.

"You've finally proven your worth." Cersei eyed the obvious round of Sansa's belly and drawled, "When my father married the North, I highly doubt he anticipated you to be as barren."

Sansa took a moment to consider the former Queen and had to once again secure the instinct to lash out in erstwhile protection of herself and her child. Her mind instead flashed the reaffirmation of duty to _her_ family. Queen Cersei was once a lady Sansa so wanted to emulate, so wanted to please. Now she found herself pitying the obviously flawed woman in front of her. She felt as though Cersei's shortcomings were very much like those of Gregor Clegane. However, the toy knight causing unstable malevolence in the former took the form of father for the latter, and to a certain degree even _he_ was not the sole cause of such loathing. Some people, much like Gregor Clegane, much like Joffrey Baratheon, much like Cersei Lannister, were simply born with a cruel blackness inside them.

Sansa's hand instinctively rested on the swell of her babe as she smiled - modest and natural.

"It was my choice, Your Grace."

"Your _choice_? " Cersei's curled her lip back in disgust. "Your choice to what? Share my fathers bed for... sport?"

The Queen Regent spat the last word in such a way it fell into the air as salt would a wound, and the offensive statement made Sansa blush. Her relationship, especially anything intimate, was of no concern to anyone least of all the daughter of her husband. It was with a flood of embarrassment that Sansa suddenly felt the maiden that she was under the harsh control of this same woman and her son; her words were meant to be confident but they came out breathy and unsure.

"I- Lord Tywin wanted..."

It was all Cersei needed to wedge a foothold for her verbal brutality.

"Are you sure it's his?" The sickly-sweet smile Cersei wore painted her for exactly what she was: knowing. "I hear you've taken to entertaining sellswords for _sport_ as well."

Sansa lost whatever hesitations she felt, but would not allow her frustration to lead her.

 _Anger is the first sign of defeat._

"I'm sure Lord Tarly will afford you the same courtesy, Your Grace," she asserted softly, her voice ever-polite. And just as she anticipated, Cersei worked her face into a look of exaggerated confusion. Sansa continued, charming and engaged, "Now that his need for an heir has become a priority."A missive reached them only that morning announcing Lord Randyll's son and heir had succumbed to the same sickness that took his mother. "Surely you won't be expected to simply _bleed and breed_ , like every wife before you. Not immediately, Your Grace."

Without much thought and with her face schooled to a look that was practiced and courteous, Sansa reached out and patted the Queen, _her daughter_ , on the hand. A gesture that had been reversed the morning of her own wedding and given with about the same amount of empathy. At the same time, the stern-faced groom stepped to the side to his bride and asked, using no more than a suspicious glance, the nature of their conversation.

Her demeanour switched to one representing a maid of no more than ten, and words were out of her mouth before Sansa could even consider them.

"Will there be a bedding, my lord?"

Lord Tywin arrived just in time to observe his wife's baffling behaviour. He would never imagine Sansa slipping into the guise of frivolous girl, but the question clearly exacted the reaction she wanted as Cersei bristled in a palpable fury. Even the most flippant of words were a dangerous game, one that Sansa clearly did not think through. As he returned fully to her side, Tywin gently flexed his fingertips into the lower back of his abruptly saccharine wife. In the same instant, his daughter flashed her angry green eyes first at Sansa then to him.

The Queen's look clearly stated she was appalled and offended at the mere suggestion of such a thing.

Tywin drifted his inquiring gaze to the lord in question, who seemed to have paid the idea little thought and opted then to take control and make the decision for him.

"You have suffered more than enough this winter, my lord - your men by proxy." Tywin flicked his stony eyes to his daughter then back to Lord Tarly. "I'm sure they would benefit from a tradition of this nature." Nodding pointedly at his daughter, he continued, "It is nothing that hasn't been partaken in before, and what better way to usher in a favourable notion of their new lady."

Sansa wore a smile and posture that suggested her head was filled with air - exactly what she needed to portray when Lord Tarly scrutinized the Hand's normally astute wife to determine if her suggestion had been a jape at his expense. She placed a hand over her belly and smiled all the wider for him.

When Lord Randyll answered, he did so to Lord Tywin. His use and tolerance for women outside the duty and function of marriage was well known. His use and tolerance for dreamy girls speaking of frivolous behaviour was even less, but his men were sacred to him, and Sansa should have recognized and utilized that angle from the outset.

 _Bloody, bloody fool_.

"Yes, Lord Tywin. I am sure they'll appreciate the gesture."

The Commander's voice was much like steel yet to be tempered: strong with an element of brittle. The latter trait was a mystery and had nothing to do with confidence or weakness and everything to do with unpredictability. Lord Tarly extended his arm then, his expression remaining stern and unimpressed, and waited for his new wife to accept it.

Sansa watched a flash of anger exchange between father and daughter - a momentary widening of the eyes, nothing more. Violence exacted by way of subtly, and the victor was clear when Cersei wasted no time in resting her hand on the arm of her new husband before being led away. They were out of earshot when Tywin removed his hand from her back and partially turned to her.

"I know _why_ Sansa, but you were careless." Her husband's voice was low and agitated, the hand nearest her front came up and gently cupped the round of their babe. "Handle yourself accordingly or find the flexibility in your lifestyle restricted, if not removed outright. Understand?"

Her jaw clenched visibly. Sansa despised being treated like that. She fumed for a moment at the concept of carrying his child and having him see her as one as well... but her actions were just that: childish. Sansa took a deep breath, dissipating her annoyance.

"Apologies, my lord," she offered in all sincerity.

Her husband turned again to look at her fully, his eyes played angry but softened somewhat when she brushed her fingers over his hand still laid on her belly.

"I'm sorry," she reiterated in a tiny voice as she lowered her eyes to the brightly jeweled broach anchoring the wide crimson sash he wore over his doublet.

The impact of her actions were now becoming accentuated amid them. For the amount of anger she had seen in the eyes of Lord Tywin, his voice was toned with nothing of it.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

Sansa complied and was humbled in that his eyes truly matched his inflection, and it made her foolishness seem even more petty and brash.

He was worried.

They were far enough to the outskirts of the ballroom that Sansa allowed her mask to fade slightly and let her features tell her husband what words could not justify. That she knew she endangered them all for no more reason than self satisfaction, and her conscience was suffering for it. He leaned into her as though to speak closely, but instead of words he kissed her softly, purposefully. It was not so quick that it meant nothing, but he did not linger either. Sansa watched seriousness resurface in his countenance as he stood to full height again, but gone was the irritation. Her own courtesy slid back into place, her husband waiting until she was adjusted and ready before taking his place at her side, gently gripping her hand and slipping it into its place on his arm.

Theirs was a puzzle whose pieces - physical and otherwise - fit so flush and absolute no room was afforded between them. However, instead of letting the build of them become uncompromising, they had, sometimes unknowingly, developed new pieces and refashioned the puzzle as they went.

Sansa stood beside her lion as he moved them once again amongst the crowd, casting the immaculate demeanour she had been lauded for since she was a babe, flicking her eyes around them and turning her head in order to observe more of the room.

An ominous prickle on the skin at the back of her neck was how she knew eyes were watching her. Not those that glance, but those that track intently. Hunting. Not looking directly to the source, and taking advantage of Tywin stopping to address one lord or another, Sansa needed no more than her periphery to distinguish Cersei sitting at the high table, glaring.

She could not help it, she had to. Sansa looked at the woman dead-on, and viewing Cersei in that moment was like trying to read a single page that had a hundred stories on it, all overlapping: hate, fury, confusion, and obvious sadness. Each piled up and fighting for position. It was then she considered the sitting height of the Queen, instantly acknowledging that Tywin's show of affection was not only visible to his daughter, but angled in such a way that there would be no question as to who initiated the intimacy.

Sansa did not smile at the Queen or offer anything other than impassiveness as she watched the older woman crack and crumble with an eerie, stoic grace. She wanted to neither help nor hinder that avalanche of hurt consuming the golden lioness. Sansa's mind shifted the images and considerations regarding what she was witnessing, until she landed soundly on the conclusion: there was nothing more devastating to a daughter than watching her father choose the girl he married for gain over the child he sired with the woman he loved.

She looked toward Tywin then, struggling with her mind's want to deduce whether his actions were truly _that_ maliciously calculated, and although she was confident in the reasoning that such a blow was purely coincidental, her heart radiated an ache anyway.

Sansa had to focus on her unborn child, not daring to look at Cersei again. The distraction enough to avoid getting swallowed up in an avalanche of her own.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lord Tywin had never been a man to rest on his laurels or remotely ease at the passing of adversity. That was why, when Cersei had finally journeyed to Horn Hill with her husband, he did not budge in his staunch refusal of his wife's request to reduce her guard detail.

He had assigned four Lannister men of the oldest Houses to his wife. They were loyal. Trusted not only to die for her, but they also had enough field experience to ensure they would not become distracted from their duty at the first sniff of cunt.

"Even by half, my lord?" Sansa wasn't begging, she was laying out her reasoning as best she could to a man who obviously did not want to hear it. "Two would hardly bring the attention that four does."

They had settled at their desk. It wasn't late in the evening, but Sansa would begin to feel her wakefulness and usefulness sap before long and she wanted this addressed while she was alert.

"Let them take their look," her husband affirmed. He was making an effort to keep his ire in check, she knew. "I care nothing of your want to have your gowns' view unobstructed."

Her lips thinned and her jaw flexed.

"Why do you feel it necessary to punish me?"

This was an anger she felt no control of. These bouts had only become prominent since she had been with child, her careful patience refusing its usual role. Being replaced currently by irrationality, which only agitated her more as it was of no assistance in helping to accomplish her goal.

"It is not about _punishment_ , you thick-headed child."

Tywin had leaned into her some, but was not seething or throwing his words in an effort to hurt. Sansa found the contrast perplexing, then focused sharply as he continued.

"You are an asset carrying _my_ asset. I'll have you locked away in a tower if I so choose."

The reference to her aunt was insensitive, but the point of caring was well passed. He cocked his head toward her for only a heartbeat before turning back to the correspondence he was reviewing. His wife looked furious, but her own words belied her features.

Suddenly her concern over the number of guards was nowhere to be found and she did not know whether to lay blame at the feet of her seemingly ever-fickle mind or somewhere deeper. She should have been petulant and venomous, but was instead sad and distant.

"Will you leave me there to perish as well, my lord?"

Frustration washed clean out of the Great Lion, but his pride was impossible to sidestep. "Cease _questioning_ me, Sansa." He flicked an intense glare at her. "Lest you care to tempt your luck."

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but instead coughed out the air she inhaled for her words, widened her eyes at her husband, and placed both her hands on her belly.

Tywin was standing immediately.

"Are you well?" His voice was calm but he did not give her a chance to answer. "Sansa, are you in pain?"

She blinked rapidly and grabbed his sleeve with one of her hands, the other remaining on the babe.

"I'm well," was all she said.

The hand on his sleeve moved to his wrist and tugged lightly. This was part of Sansa's communication when they were alone - touches, tugs, pulls, and pushes. Each signifying different requests, thoughts and feelings, that changed in different scenarios. Hers was a silent language Tywin could appreciate and, like his wife in regards to his levels of seriousness, he had become fluent.

He gave her command of his hand and watched as she lowered it to lay beside hers on the swell under her breasts.

Tywin knew what was coming. Sitting down again, keeping his hand in the place his wife set it, the old lion closed his eyes and lowered his head in a deep bow.

She thought it odd that he would not look at her and for a moment considered that hehimselfmay not be well. A concern left open until the hand on her started to stroke in tiny circles. She smiled down at the motion and understood that while everything that was happening to her was new, it was not new to him.

Sansa hiccoughed at the movement inside her, so strange, the twisting thumping thing, but his hand remained constant - rubbing and warm. When she looked to him, his head was still dipped low, she could not see his face, but she could see how his shoulders relaxed and his side whiskers swayed, how his chest moved in catches and quick intakes with every wave, and she smiled at the small growling huffs he would emit for every bump and tumble under his palm.

She let him be.

He looked at his wife when she made a sound, a gasp of surprise. The babe had shifted in what felt like an internal melee. Meeting his gaze, her wide-eyed manner the same as before, Sansa smiled broadly, her voice full of wonder.

"I- there hasn't been so much... dancing before, my lord."

With that she looked questioningly to where Tywin's hand rested and his mouth twitched at her amazement, but dropped to a grimace as he felt himself acknowledge his ignorance. When his wife looked at him again, her own countenance floundered from question to hesitation, to a polished version of pleasant - worn strictly for his benefit, making his inner chastisement that much more prominent. His lady wife had no idea what was happening to her. Aside from what was discussed with the Maester, she had no other women in her life to relate to in this time, to talk to about such things - not like Joanna did.

Queen Margaery was yet a maiden and Cersei was never an option... Genna perhaps, she could be a suitable companion. Well older, but his wife never had issue with relating to anyone...

He was getting lost in his thoughts and his wife was watching him disappear.

"Did your mother ever talk to you about such things?"

The pain that gathered in her eyes stuck him even though it was expected. He had asked the question gently, but there was no way to remove the hurt of its context.

Sansa dropped her gaze, shook her head slightly and spoke softly. "No," she said, looking up then and to his surprise she was smiling, small and sincere. "I think she had always assumed we would be together when I was..."

Glancing down once again his wife rubbed her hand over her roundness, brushing a careful caress against Tywin's fingers as she went.

Selfishness sometimes liked to traipse around and call itself protection. Tywin knew well enough that he would never compromise the preservation of his legacy, but smothering it was equally hazardous. He had essentially kept her to himself, but there was never a time he felt that that was not the proper course of action... _No_ , his thoughts argued, _she made the choice to keep near as well_.

Aside from the new Queen, he was all she had. What a sad truth. Sharp and double edged because even sadder, his mind ticked away in terrible honesty, was that aside from Kevan, _she_ was all _he_ had too. It had never been an issue, being reliant on himself, he needed no one. The moment Joanna died, the requirement for companionship died too.

Or so he thought.

It took a marriage to a northern girl and the onset of winter to realize that need never really dies, it only becomes dormant. And although he told himself that his only _need_ was an heir, like anything that shakes off the listlessness of hibernation, the slow lumbering truth was that his real need was so much more.

"Are you lonely?"

His mouth said the words, his thumb brushed lines on the bump of life inside her, and he did not know which of the two people in the room the question was meant for. Suddenly _he_ felt like a thick-headed child. But her demeanour did not shift. When she looked at him, he could see in her stare consideration, not calculation, something thoughtful and genuine - and he hated the fact that he was anxious of her answer.

"In regards to being with child, yes."

"In regards to everything else?"

She blinked at him, slowly, methodically, and answered truthfully, "No, my lord. I am not."

Lord Tywin nodded absently as he absorbed her honesty, and spoke with the same amount of distraction. "I am afraid I'm not much of an authority on childbearing."

It was her chuckle that snapped him back into the moment.

"A fine pair of midwives we make."

He scoffed at her sarcasm. It was a part of her that seemed to have developed on its own. Although she rarely used it outside his company, and never had it been cruel.

"I will send for someone who will tend to you - someone you can talk to."

Her smile faltered barely a degree, but he caught it plain as day.

Sansa abandoned her humour. "Who, my lord?"

"A woman."

One side of his wife's face pinched in annoyance at his own sarcasm. Although his was never meant to be funny, except perhaps with her, and even then it was obscure, sometimes cutting, and always dry as Dorne.

They simply looked at each other for several moments until Tywin's fingers were wrapped up and twined in those of his wife. She did not break his gaze, but her features softened. She looked so young without the harshness of courtly decorum, and when she smiled at him with her eyes he heard her agreement and gratitude as loud and as clear as if she had sung it by the lungful to the world around her.

He grinned, awkward and without warmth, but his own eyes were where Sansa knew to look. It was there she saw a man who seemed to be awake for the first time in a long time.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It had taken quite a lot of coaxing and training of the four fierce men she was surrounded by daily to have them not disturb her time alone in the godswood. No, she corrected. It took cunning.

More than once Sansa had found herself physically pulling them out of the clearing in which she prayed and contemplated. The clank and rattle of their shifting stances and occasional investigations into the looming threat of curious squirrels were enough to yank her out of her meditation and shove her directly into a fiery temper.

Their compromise culminated in the guards sweeping the clearing before standing at the gates with their charge out of visual range, but within shouting distance.

Tywin agreed to the lapse only after the proposed alternative of her joining him at counsel if he wanted her monitored so meticulously turned out to be no mere threat. As her pregnancy moved on it left behind her inhibition. She had followed him into counsel chambers a half dozen times, once even sitting beside a thoroughly pleased Lord Varys, and for the sanity it would save him, the compromise was a small tax.

All she wanted was the peaceful freedom of her thoughts and memories in a place that reminded her of home.

Of the North.

The foliage was long gone from the canopy of the godswood, but the density of the branches did not allow much accumulation either. The ground was no longer lush and soft though, it was frozen hard under her feet - a detail that prompted her husband to insist on a bench being installed and _used_ , as he would not have his wife _kneeling in the frost like a savage_.

She smiled as she sat, glad of her husband's stubborn shade of thoughtfulness. Bundled in a heavy cloak, soaking in the calm, Sansa grinned as she looked down the front of her. Her cloak was so dense that her pregnancy was thoroughly concealed - until her hands moved covertly under the fabric to brush an outline of her babe.

 _Their_ babe.

Though there was no weirwood tree in the godswood of King's Landing, Sansa often prayed that the old gods could see her, could see that she was well and that she was going to be a mother. She wanted her father to know that she was strong and that no matter where her child was born, that it would always be of the North.

Even the persistent caws of the raven that lived within the wood were a strange comfort.

Movement in her peripheral caught her attention, rustling from the shadows of her place of quiet reflection. It was common to see one of the many smaller forest animals that sometimes wandered into the godswood cross her path, and she watched with a smile to see which it would be, a rabbit, a fox...

But the shadow grew to a height well outside the norm of any four-legged beast that would be seen amongst the trees. Her hands immediately covered her belly under her cloak and her breathing became rapid as she stood from the bench.

The shadow took shape of a hulking man, and Sansa's eyes went wide.

 _The sour man._

"Guards! _Guards_!" she bellowed, gripping tight the babe inside her, protecting it as she backed away.

Only moments slid away until the rushing steps and calling voices of her protectors could be heard. At the same time, the shadow started to retreat and spoke as it vanished into the shifting blacks and greys from where it had emerged.

" _Little Bird_."

Sansa watched the figure disappear completely and was left wide eyed and shaking her head in quick little movements, trying to dislodge the words she thought she had heard.

Swords drawn, her four warriors were red-faced and poised to kill.

"A dog," she muttered, half in a daze. "I saw a large dog." Turning toward the opposite direction from which her past had mingled with her present. Sansa pointed in a clear way and spoke quite in a daze. "It ran through that thicket."

Two men pursued her lie while the other two men wasted no time in escorting her back to the Keep.

The next handful of days saw Sansa visiting the godswood without fail. Even when the wind was so bitter she had to cover her face and head with a thick wool scarf, she was there. Without fail. She went at the same time every day, not praying, but hoping, and hoping _not_ , to see the ghost again.

After a sennight Sansa knew for certain her vision had surely been a form of mother's sickness. However, on the ninth day, her peace was disturbed by the flush of a group of birds sent flying away as their own peace at the edge of the clearing was intruded upon by a giant man shuffling through the underbrush.

Sansa stood once more, still nervous, but not entirely frightened.

The figure was hooded, dressed in no more than scraps and rags - brown dun mostly, and whatever else could be layered together in order to create warmth.

She _knew_ this man.

Nothing of the dull armour he used to live in could be seen or heard, and he was walking with a slight limp to his gait. He approached her slowly, as though she were about to take flight like the birds he had already disrupted.

Sansa had no intention of leaving. She craned her neck further back the closer he ventured. Even in her growth she was nowhere near tall enough to look at him without effort. He stopped just within arm's reach, she could hear an all too familiar growl from within the recess of the frayed hood and could not stop the grin that widened on her face.

It wasn't that she was necessarily happy to see the Hound, it was more that she had a confirmation of her past. A confirmation that she was not strictly made of the events of her here-and-now, that she actually had history. And while he wasn't the person she would choose to define her, he had existed with her in a time that she remembered being happy... and in a time that she was not.

There was a large inhale from the depths of the men's cowl, then large hands rose to push the hood back.

The face of Sandor Clegane was exactly how she remembered: gruesome. Although his scars were not as shockingly severe as she recalled from her memory. But then, she wasn't the same stupid little bird looking at him. What did strike her as frightening was how gaunt his face was. She then realized that it was the amount of clothing he wore that was contributing to the familiar bulk of the man before her.

The next thing she noticed was the clarity in his eyes. There was no watery blur, nothing drunken, nor the constant haze that made it hard to focus on him - even when he would rage at her to do so. The whites of his eyes were just that, no longer a sickly pitch of yellow - a hue that was ever emphasized in the green glow of the last night in which they saw each other.

 _Sing for your life_...

"Not afraid to look anymore, Little Bird?" said the all familiar rasp of steel on stone bathed in an air of superiority.

It was another strange comfort in the godswood. As though it had not been years since they had seen one another.

Her voice was confident, if not a little distracted. "I have seen worse."

The remaining brow of Sandor Clegane lifted high, but instead of addressing the words she said, he questioned the words she didn't.

"Lost your courtesies along with your virtue, girl? No _ser_ or _my lord_?"

The words rang in the same mocking tone she remembered, leveled with a measure of cruelty, but it no longer held the sharp edge they once did. No, now she found it all particularly lacking. A base attempt to rattle her, a tactic long since outmaneuvered while in the company of men and women who actually hated her.

"Did you acquire those titles since we last met?" she asked dryly, but not unkindly.

His snort, however improper, was a pleasant thing to hear. It also seemed to lighten him a fraction.

"No, Little Bird, I've had everything taken away, not given."

"Is that what you are doing here?" A sense of bravery laced its way around her countenance. "Begging?"

Sandor leaned his head back and grinned.

It was an ugly thing.

"Aye. Beg and _steal_ perhaps."

She was tired of the game, she needed answers. "Not much bounty in the godswood."

He ducked his head to look at her straight and she knew his declaration before his lungs gave it life.

"I've found what I'm looking for, Little Bird," he sneered.

He must have been expecting her to blanch or protest or at the very least exhibit a look of concern because when her face displayed only annoyance, the man was at a loss.

"You are no more a Wildling than we are in the North. You'll not _steal_ me."

His face reddened and she thought he would fling his wrath. It never happened. Instead he spun around, paced away, then spun around and returned. When he did not speak, only huffed, Sansa asked her own question with an air of disappointment.

"And where exactly would we go?"

"Pick a fucking direction, girl," he spat, raising his hands as if to display her options. "Don't tell me you like it here." He leaned down with his all too familiar glare. "I can _still_ smell a lie."

How do you explain the unexplainable to a man who distrusts the words you speak? Sansa looked away in an effort to assemble what she needed to say, but her breath caught at the feel of fingers like iron clasping her chin and tilted her face to view his.

 _No one_ touched her like that, not even her husband, not any more. And she had to douse the internal want to slap his hand away and upbraid his presumption. She was not the girl he left behind, but he was blinded by what he thought he could see: the same indecisive bird waiting for a knight to rescue her. And he was impeded by what he refused to acknowledge: that _he_ was trying to be that same bloody knight.

He cared, she knew. His intentions were for the good, she knew. His loyalty was for her alone, she _knew_.

And he had no idea.

Sansa did not breathe a sound, neither did she take her eyes off him. Her own hand wrapped around his wrist - as much as it was able - and pulled his fingers away from her chin. She kept as much of a grip as she could hold on the deadly man and continued to move his hand downward.

Sandor's eyes widened minutely, feeling his knuckles brush down the long span of her pale throat. The air hitched as he tried to exhale when Sansa pulled his brutish paw into the warmth of her cloak, over her collar and into the dips and bumps of the thick grey necklace she wore.

Their eyes stayed locked.

He bared his teeth, groaned some sort of whimper, and flipped his palm down when he felt the softness of her breasts through her bodice - but she did not stop.

When his hand finally halted, the lips of Sandor Clegane parted, but any words that were behind them ended before they began. He blinked out patterns, and Sansa watched through the dark scruff on his neck the heavy rise and fall of the bulb in his throat. She knew these actions were a man's way of forcefully comprehending what he did not want to.

Sandor was on the banks of the Trident again, lamenting of his should-haves, trying to end his life with a con, knowing that he would die a failure - that he had _failed her_. And when men removed the possibility of death, he became restless and needed to try again - and succeed...

 _...fuck_.

The giant man in front of her dropped hard to his knees and Sansa couldn't imagine the pain of landing dead weight on the pointed, frozen ground. What was most curious though was that his hand never moved from her belly. Sandor slumped in what looked like defeat, hung his head and kept a gentle grip around her baby with his outstretched palm.

" _Too late_ ," he whispered. A sound barely heard.

She watched as his whole body heaved to take in air, only to shiver and growl in an effort to push it out again through his teeth. He was fighting with himself and it was as though she stepped back in time, her memory flooded with pangs of old fear and waves of new fearlessness. It was quite something to observe turmoil in this man from a position above.

"That fucking night..." His utterance came out as a retch. "I should have taken you-"

Her tone was even but her words were terribly sharp. "With you? Or for pleasure?"

Sansa knew what it was to be at the mercy of a man wanting to take what was not his. Sandor was that man for a brief moment once, the sour man more so, and after the more recent attempt she further understood that ignorance, on both their parts - one built of youth, the other built of self loathing - saved them _both_ the night of Blackwater.

He looked at her then, but made no effort to move. Neither did she.

"Do you have a blade?" Sansa asked in a serene voice.

The question seemed to come out of nowhere, but she was dauntless in the asking of it. It was what kept Sandor's eyes trained to hers as he used his free hand to pass her the deadliest honed shit-metal dirk that side of the Wall. A token scored on his journey to King's Landing from a boy he had to kill for trying to bleed out his own life in his sleep.

She took it without question and they again were frozen in time and weather in some sweet pose. The exception being that now one of them was armed.

Sansa had a plan, had an advanced notion of what she wanted to do, but once the heft of the knife bobbed her palm all she could think about was the weight he had held her down with that last night. Her mind was awash with the control he had wanted over her, then it snapped to the icy bite of another blade - one that had rested on her neck dangerously.

She was becoming claustrophobic in the open air. Long buried fury was burning its way to the forefront of her mind, licking and charring as it went, slowly, methodically guiding her hand.

She laid the flat of the bruise coloured blade against the unburned side of this throat. The action did not startle him, but she could see his pulse under the growth of beard, through the dirt and grim, thrum a little faster.

Sandor had kept her eye, wariness and a flicker akin to longing danced in them. She couldn't decide if he was longing for her or for her to end him. The former was something now that she had grown - _lived -_ she could not deny was in him during their life before. Whether or not it was coupled with desire, or if she was simply the entity he felt earned that from him, she did not know. What she _did_ know was that he was not the same man, just as she was not the same girl.

On his knees, his giant hand still resting like a warm blanket over the babe she carried, his face somber, he tilted his head to the side, exposing more of his neck to her.

 _A dare_? _A request_? She was unsure.

Focusing on the glint of steel against the thick coarse hair, she angled the blade a small amount and pushed delicately. The stiffness of the hair there was made almost brittle by the freezing temperature, but the knife's edge sheared it without catch or stutter.

The large man closed his eyes then. If this was to be his fate, his redemption, then so be it. He was not afraid of death. He had lived for her once, twice maybe, he would die for her as well, once more, if that was her will.

Sansa felt his fingers loosen on her belly, but his hand stayed. He had let her go but not all the way, and that was the clearer sense of it all. Of them. Whatever _they_ were. They were bound by experience and circumstance, by anger and naivety, by _life_. It was shared ordeals no matter how terrible, no matter how rudimentary or complex. It was in them. Even after all the changes and transitions their history remained.

He would never ask for forgiveness, though she was intuitive enough to know that was what he wanted. The greater question was if she was prepared to give it. She angled the knife again and watched the tip slip just under the skin, watched the first bead of crimson form on the steel and steam and fail to fall because of the cold.

His breathing slowed, she could see, the features of the unruined side of his face were peaceful.

She was still so delicate, but no longer a little bird. There was strength there too, in her eyes, mostly in her confidence. Sandor could easily see - _feel -_ she had formed herself around whatever occurred after he had left. Claimed whatever it was and allowed it to make her stronger. He had been so sure Tywin Lannister would have shelved her away to breed. He was also sure he was glad that he had been so wrong.

It suited her, this strength, this steely resolve and mysterious intimidation. She held it well and again it was the confidence that allowed her to wield the thing with lethal precision. Sandor felt... _proud_ perhaps. Maybe even happy that this was her fate. Something he was able to see for himself before his end.

He heard various snips and cuts, and wondered if Lady Sansa had also become cruel under the tutelage of Lord Tywin, until he acknowledged that the cold blade was no longer on him. The confusion he felt, regardless of how mild, threatened to spark the anger in him that some including himself had called The Hound. A threat that was controlled now, sometimes easily, sometimes not, he willed that part of him to remain buried all the same.

 _The Hound is dead... and so is his Little Bird._

As Sansa clipped and plucked every gold button, fastening and jeweled bead from the gown beneath her cloak, she tried to form the words and sentences explaining her actions. Nothing was lining up. All she could see in her periphery were eyes, sharp and dissecting, assessing her and culminating their own answers. When she was finished, her dress looked slightly tattered, no more, but it was nothing her cloak wouldn't hide. Ridding herself of the gown would be the greater challenge.

Sansa gave the knife back and watched as Sandor tucked it under the ribbons of coverings. When she held his gaze again she felt a calm overtake her. A wave that wasn't to push away fear, there was too much warmth for that, it emanated from her chest outward and she recognized it as the assuredness she gained from the godswood.

The little girl who put so much faith in faith was long put to bed, but the flutter of dreams from that same little girl allowed her more cynical older self to believe in a tiny bit of guidance.

A tiny bit of conviction.

Using her free hand, she gently pulled Sandor's away from her belly and turned it upward. His eyes shifted to the glittering bits that were plinking into the well of his palm.

It wasn't much.

She needed more.

Her eyes must have flashed worry because the deep set grey ones in front of her narrowed in question. Lady Lannister tilted her vision down to the child made of her and her lord husband, then looked once more at the man who had just held onto that life, gentle and protective.

Bringing her hands up and behind her neck, Sansa dug and fumbled until she found what she needed and, with a rather unsophisticated grunt, she unlatched the heavy white-gold necklace with the even heavier ruby that she had become known for. And even as she held it out to the man on his knees, she knew there would be a great cost. This single action would be paid for in lives, she knew.

Sansa bit back the sting of tears when she felt her child move, and in that one tender moment she also understood that the value of life fluctuated. A heinous circumstance. One that if she had lived in a better world she would never have to give thought to preserving herself and what was hers over anyone else. But as it stood, the possibility of benefit for her children's future meant a sacrifice now, and she would shoulder that burden gladly.

Though, that was the gamble. Was this man worth the cost? Would her venture pay out in the end? There could be no real certainty in the matter, only chance.

The precious metal and jewels landed sound in the large hand below. _Yes_ , even her thoughts would brook no opposition, _it is worth it_. Sansa mustered every sliver of determination and poise that belonged to her before addressing him.

"You have to live, Sandor." Her brow sunk in a manner more like Lord Tywin as she became commanding. " _Promise_ me."

The big man took a few swaying tries before he was able to stand at full height, stretching himself high. First looking down at her, then to her middle, then back to her eyes again with an intensity that required inner reassurance that whatever he was radiating was for her, not against her.

And when he spoke, she knew it was a vow.

"I _promise_."

They were two words she felt rumble out of him, that came from somewhere behind the blood and meat and bone - there was no question of truth.

He closed his fist around her investment like closing a book and the hulking man backed away into the shadows again.

Sansa could see while she watched his retreat, as bright as any sun, the glimmer in his eyes. It wavered slightly but was there all the same: a life, a hope, a mark to strive for, or simply a soldier tasked with a mission. Whatever it was, it hung on him like natural finery, priceless and incomparably sublime.

Sansa couldn't help it - couldn't stop it even if she wanted to - she smiled at Sandor Clegane as one would a friend. And she was sure, as the dark shade finally overtook him, _she was sure_ Sandor Clegane smiled back.

...

..

.


	18. Winter VII

...

..

.

Her dream was filled with conversation; a man and a woman. Sansa had taken to lying down in the hours before supping with Tywin, and occasionally woke to the voices of Ser Kevan or Ser Jaime, but never to that of a woman. Never to a woman crying in pain. What began as a sunny vision of her mother and father talking idly in her dream, slid into something nefarious as the exchange fell to accusations. Her mother became faceless in the midst of the yelling and her father grew taller, leaner... golden...

Her belly had become cumbersome of late, prompting Lord Tywin to have a maid at her side at all times he was not and Deena was at her service immediately, assisting her rise from the bed, the noise of the argument growing louder as her feet found the floor. Standing cold in her nightdress, shivering not for the weather but for the cut of silence that had now engulfed her, the voices having seemingly faded, Sansa held out her hand signaling the older woman to both obtain and dress her in her husband's robe. At the same time she shrugged into the garment, Sansa inquired in a tone so low it was as though she were trying not to spook the atmosphere any more than it was.

"The commotion, Deena, what is it?"

"It's no good, m'lady." The woman's voice was even softer than her own. "Your necklace, m'lord's favourite, it's gone missing." The handmaid wore a look of seriousness and spoke much like a confession, "The new one, don't know her name, she was to clean it, but brought the box to Lord Tywin instead. She says it were found empty, but m'lord says she lies."

Whatever sleep remaining in Sansa fled from the inferno of fear that had sparked then ignited within her.

This was it. This was the cost of paying a debt owed to a man who had protected her as well as he could, and who had saved her life more than once - the exchange of another life. Not that Sandor would care or think at all about that particular price being paid, but _she_ would.

Wasting no time to ready and dress properly, Sansa padded through the small corridor quickly and approached the entrance of the sitting room. She no longer heard malicious words, but what she _did_ hear was just as dreadful. The noise was sharp followed by a sorrowful yelp, then repeated inconsistently. It made her lungs forget how to breathe. Every acute slap snagged the air like thorns on a vine, but it was the utter misery behind it that made her feet move again.

Stepping into the large room, she took a deep breath and surveyed the situation at hand.

Toward the fire, at the rear of the bench, Tywin had his back to her. He was standing calmly, no longer yelling, there was no indication that he was infuriated at all - and _that_ was terrifying. Equally terrifying was what lay on the ground.

Strewn before the fireplace were the broken remains of the jeweler's box that had contained her necklace. It had been thrown down with a force strong enough to bend the solid key and shatter the carefully crafted wood at the corners. The plush bag that held the finery had landed close enough to the flames to char, and the two halves of the lead seal had melted into a small reflective pool right there on the stone hearth.

In front of her husband lay a girl, no older than Sansa herself, who was trying hard to eat the sobs that were clawing their way out of her. She could see panic in her eyes and trickles of blood staining the backs of her calves. The girl was propped on her side, using both hands to keep her body up, but by the way her legs were together and angled inward, it was easy to see she had started in a bent position.

The young handmaid was beseeching her lord for mercy.

"Stand up."

Sansa went cold.

Lord Tywin's command was clipped to a fine point, nowhere near harsh. However, Sansa knew Tywin well enough, she was fully aware that what was not heard in his voice nor shown as outward physical display lived just below the surface and was no less dangerous.

The battered girl climbed with her arms, up the back of the furniture and stood on shaky legs like that of a newborn foal. Much to the same design, the she then made a pathetic bleat for her life, only to have her words swallowed by the void indifference, thus her plight remained ignored.

The next move Sansa observed forcefully repelled her, equally in steps and in years. Tywin's arm raised high and back, and what was initially hidden in front of his relaxed stance was now frighteningly clear: his long sword. It hovered, oiled and polished, poised to perform the task it was created for: inflicting injury. With one savage swing and the striking flat of the blade, the finely honed edges cut through lesser fabric to punch into flesh.

Sansa felt needling pain working its way through the spiderweb of scarring that painted her own body. She heard a rushing noise in her ears at the same time her head began pounding hard on the inside, her skull taking the brunt like an anvil in a smithy.

Another cold command, and it left the scared girl quaking in submission.

"Put your hands out."

With the maid's hands stretched out before him, her husband once again reached back with his sword. Sansa watched, horrified as the blade twisted its angle. A mere flick of the wrist and Tywin had turned the steel in order to chop, to sever.

Anticipating the conclusion was too much. Her chest ached, but the worst of it was the cramping spasm starting just above her groin and striking like lightning up her spine and down the backs of her legs.

 _The babe..._

 _Too soon_...

"Stop!"

The demand of a word was not what halted Tywin Lannister in his administrating punishment, it was the way that single word had pitched in broken anguish. Arm arched back, he pivoted at the waist and saw his wife, dressed in bedclothes and his robe, barely holding herself up at the edge of their desk. Her face was ghostly pale under a sheen of sweat, her outer arm was cradling her belly while her entire body stood shaking.

"My lord... _Please_..." Her voice was so spent in pain it was all but air.

"Maester!" he screamed at the handmaid, who immediately straightened her beaten body and turned and ran, calling for help.

Tywin dropped the weapon with a muffled clatter and went to Sansa, picking her up gently, urgently, taking her back to their bedchamber; ordering Deena to ready water to boil and gather linens if needed.

Sansa heaved words with each wave of panic and hurt. " _No more, Tywin_... _Leave her_.. _._ "

"Hush, girl," he muttered, distracted. "Lay still. Pycelle will be here soon."

" _No more_..." she whimpered through clenched teeth.

Her husband was wiping sweat from her face and neck with his hand, his eyes were darting the length of her then back to meet hers. His brow was pinched, but he did not look angry.

"Yes, fine," he said, his words unfocused.

Sansa gathered herself to ask her quivering, serious question. "Am I b-bleeding?"

Tywin did not want to look, _gods_ , he did not want to know. His hand pulled her hem up anyway. His eyes moved to the gusset of her underclothing anyway. His teeth ground and his chest cinched anyway...

"There is a small amount of blood." Tywin's voice was distant and he could feel his mind pulling away from her as well. This was not supposed to happen, this didn't happen before. He held no answer, no experience to fall back on, and it was making him furious. He could do no more than pet her crown and simply be there, but she was calming all the same and Tywin only hoped that that would be enough.

Maester Pycelle hurried into the room surrounded by a small army of similarly dressed younger men - apprentices, he assumed - and began talking to Lord Tywin in quick little statements. Whatever the Maester's instructions had been, they evaporated from his mind before he could comprehend them. The simple truth was that this was not his skill, Tywin did not know what plagued his wife, nor did he have the ability to cure it.

He started to back away, but was held fast by a delicate hand clasping his fingers. No, not held. Not really. There was no strength in her grip to physically restrain him, but he stopped nonetheless. He curled his fingers and looked to his wife. The sweat was beading on her upper lip, he knew she was in pain, but her eyes were so bloody pacifying...

Tywin found himself recouping composure as his frustration drained, and perhaps that was her intention since _she_ was the one to let go of him in the end

Sansa blinked slowly and smiled a tiny bit.

Lord Tywin felt the threatening crush of hurt that had slipped in at the edges of his rib cage, the one feeling he refused to acknowledge until that very moment, start to dissipate as he backed away. The spot at her side immediately assumed by a young man asking questions.

Turning to leave the chamber Tywin was preoccupied, but as soon as he entered the sitting room his peripheral registered the figure of a servant girl, _the fucking thief_ , picking up the pieces of the splintered box at the hearth. In an effort to deny his emotional ineptitude, the old lion's mind snapped to the one thing that felt familiar, comfortable because it wasn't a mystery at all: his darkness.

His sword had been picked up and sheathed in its place with his armour, tucked away in an alcove adjacent their desk. His hate of the thief, _the meat_ , only intensified; _it_ was the reason Sansa was going to...

The darkness had him walking.

The darkness bent him down and wrapped his hand around the throat of the meat.

The darkness hauled it off its feet and started to tighten the vice of his fingers.

 _No more, Tywin_... _Leave her_.. _._

Breathing heavy at the terrified girl, his eyes glossing at the thought and want of bloody violence, he growled his disdain. "You will thank your lady for the sparing of your life." He was clenching the fist curled around the maid's slender neck. "But make one misstep and I will have you stripped bare and packed with the wealth you so covet." The old lion eyed the thing from head to toe, and purred, " _Anywhere_ your body can carry it."

The grip on the girl's throat tightened and he watched in satisfaction as her eyes bulged and the veins within became more pronounced. Her lips darkened in turn as she exhaled tiny sprays of spittle in her effort to breathe. Other handmaids, footmen, and the apprentices Maester Pycelle brought to assist hurried around them, the lion and his prey, where they stood in the sitting room, like they were invisible. Not one of them dared risking a side glance for fear of the Hand's ire.

"Then I will set you loose in Flea Bottom," Tywin whispered gently, leaning to the girl's ear like one would when making any promise. "Recall what the filth did for a loaf of bread?" he asked just as gently. "Imagine what they'd do to a whore filled with silvers."

A telltale sound caused Tywin to glance down to her feet then back to her eyes. The look that burned in his own was deadly, his voice sounding more so. "You will sop up your piss, clean yourself, _then_ you will tend to your lady." Each syllable left his mouth well and truly measured. "As though your life depends on it."

The girl's neck was constricted so much that speech was not an option, she gurgled to her liege as best she could, utterly frightened. When he let her go, the maid's knees gave out and to her credit she knew better than to pass up an opportunity. Using her rough spun dress, the girl mopped away her water then staggered on lashed and bleeding legs toward the servant's entrance.

Lord Tywin moved to the center of the sitting room watching the chaos eventually dissipate to calm, then listened for - and dreaded to hear - any distress coming from their bedchamber. He didn't know how long he stood there, but when Pycelle finally approached, Tywin's hands were cramped in the fists he didn't know he'd made.

"Lady Sansa will be allowed no movement for the next sennight, my lord," the Maester instructed. Then amended, "Save the natural needs of the body, of which she is to be assisted."

The stare Tywin offered the man was piercing. The tone of his question, on the other hand, ambled from his mouth rather lost. "And what of the child?"

A moment of wonder had Pycelle's rigid composure easing. "The child is well, my lord," he said. His voice knowing and sympathetic. "And will remain so as long as the mother reduces her strain. What happened today happens to most women in an environment that can be taxing-"

"It did not happen to _Joanna_ ," Tywin snarled.

Grand Maester Pycelle lowered his brow slightly at the shift of Lord Tywin's mood. He had known the Hand's first wife, and because of that, did not retract his sympathy. "That may be so, my lord, but neither did she have her children _here_."

There was a heaviness between the two men, but it was nothing of rage and more of knowing. They each were well aware of the effect King's Landing had on even the healthiest of people. People who had _chosen_ to be there. But Tywin also knew that his own actions that day were of no help to Sansa, either. And what a choking, bitter pill to swallow remorse was for a man like him.

The announced presence of Ser Kevan disrupted Tywin's thoughts and prompted him to dismiss the Maester with a lazy flick of his fingers.

Once Pycelle had left, Tywin looked at his brother and spoke tiredly. "I'll not hear pity."

Kevan drew near to his older brother, a small amount of levity his offering to the man. "I'm here to know the well being of your babe and Lady Sansa, not to offer _you_ pity."

Tywin scoffed a little before he spoke. "She will recover," he confirmed, as he turned and walked to his desk. "Pycelle assures me the babe is unharmed." His voice notched darker as he sat and idled through parchments, "This is some _common course_ , apparently."

"It is, my lord." Kevan waited for his brother to look at him again. "My Dorna was set to rest for nearly a moon's turn at a time."

Tywin addressed his brother severely, bitterly, "Your wife barely sets foot beyond your home. How is it she could be burdened at all?"

Kevan did not flinch; he knew this part of Tywin. He knew that this was how his brother gathered information and made sense of it for his inner reference. So when he replied, his voice reflected that understanding. "She is nervous by her very nature, but she has given me three healthy boys-" At that, Kevan blinked his eyes away from his brother for a moment, remembering that his boys now numbered only two. Clearing his throat he looked again to Tywin's icy glare, finishing, "-and a healthy daughter."

Tywin softened his look but only a fraction and gave his brother an acknowledging, perhaps reassuring nod.

"I had already sent for a companion." Tywin pinched his thumb and forefinger at his brow, as if holding in the things he needed to remember. "The waterways are no longer so treacherous, she should be here within days."

Kevan spoke with a groan, in a childish tone that was left unchecked. "Not that ancient midwife from the Rock, I hope. That woman scares even you. Don't deny it."

A scoff tumbled from Lord Tywin for the second time, lightening his countenance just a hair.

"No," he conceded. " _That_ woman is held together by witchcraft, to be sure. She would thrive here and I'll not give her an advantage."

His younger brother laughed then, and while Tywin took a moment to let him enjoy it, he did not partake.

"Our sister will the one to grace us with her presence." His look turned solemn. "She will assist Sansa where she is able."

Kevan's laughter dimmed but his smile did not, and he said, "You may have been wiser to summon the midwife."

Tywin stood then, cocking his bow and tilting his head, silently agreeing with the younger Lannister, as he walked toward the bedchamber where his wife was resting.

Kevan nodded a bow and turned on his heel to leave; like most any brother, wise to the actions and unspoken directions of another.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa feared her husband would have had her own quarters readied for use, but when he returned after the Maester had left that awful afternoon, she had weakly begged him not to send her away. He had said nothing, only frowned and ran his fingers down her cheek before leaving her once more to complete his duties.

Later, when she woke up again, it was well into the night. She had been propped up almost in a sitting position with her neck supported, and at her side was a man, _her man_ , curled into the pillows that were edging her hips and legs in order to limit her movement. He had his hand tucked, bedgown and all, between her thighs near her knees and was sleeping soundly.

She couldn't see his face at the angle he had wrapped himself into her, only the back of his head and neck. Her hand, already resting on the blade of his shoulder, gently moved upward. Sansa smiled in anticipation and proceeded to drag her fingernails, light as a feather, from as far forward on his scalp as she could reach to the collar of his bedgown at his nape. Her smile widened, she wasn't disappointed.

Lady Sansa had stumbled upon this particular trait of her lord husband not long after she had conceived the first time. He had hugged himself into her side then too, an act that was nothing new in their bed, but when she accidentally traced her fingers over his scalp she thought she had hurt him. Out of his mouth - out of his throat to be accurate - came a bright and airy sigh that trailed through the air forever. She had waited for him to say something, to explain the odd behaviour or snarl at her, but instead she only heard his soft snoring. It was such a contrast to the man she knew awake; the deadly, vicious lion. But it was also something of him that was strictly her own, something not even _he_ knew about.

Something she delighted in every time the opportunity presented itself.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

In the days that followed, he did not turn her away. On the contrary, Lord Tywin seemed to draw her closer - draw his _asset_ closer - yet whatever the reasoning, Sansa felt better for him doing so and in turn better on the whole.

Early in the evening of her sixth day confined to bed, Sansa woke once again to conversation, only this time it was a woman's voice that was in command... and oddly reprimanding.

"...is replaced easier, Ty, a babe or a damned _necklace_?"

The distinctive rumble of her husband could be heard easily, but Sansa could not distinguish what he was saying. Twisting in her effort to focus, she groaned at the discomfort and stiffness that seemed to blanket her body; Deena was immediately at her side an imploring her to remain still. She didn't want to, she was becoming agitated in her restrictions. So much, that she had taken to walking slow and extended pathways to the privy - often - as it was her only hint of freedom.

Sansa was brought back into the moment by Deena arranging her hair brush and washing accessories at the bedside.

"Lady Genna has arrived," the maid started as she set to striping and washing her charge. "M'lord wanted you readied as soon as you woke, so is to meet her."

Sansa nodded absently, letting her handmaid dress and groom her as necessary, and remained silent when Deena announced her lady was prepared to take visitors. She felt a fool really, dressed in a wonderful gown, large as an ox, surrounded by bolsters, sitting rod straight on a plush bed.

 _A bloody fool._

When Tywin walked in he was trailed by a woman his physical opposite. Where her husband was tall and lean, Lady Genna was short and plump. She had the same golden curls and piercing green eyes that defined her as a Lannister, and her proportions only seemed to add a character of ferocity. She was painted, but not as heavily as Sansa had seen on some woman of court, and her dress was cut lower in the front to accentuate her generous cleavage.

Sansa looked at the woman, looked her in the eyes as she accepted the chair her brother brought over to her, and knew that everything she portrayed outwardly was as calculated and purposed as everything Tywin kept locked inside himself.

As equal and contrasting as two siblings could be.

 _Arya_.

Tywin sat at an angle on the edge of the bed, his thigh against her ankle, and rested his hand on the inside of her calf. It was an action that was more than subtle, especially when his thumb moved in circles, a gesture she well knew was his way of offering comfort. When her husband raised his eyes to her, she smiled at him, a comfort as genuine and profound his own.

"Lady Genna, my wife, Lady Sansa."

The introductions were perfectly appropriate, but in the confines of a bedchamber they also felt out of place. Genna nodded demurely and Sansa caught Tywin narrowing his eyes at her - it was a sign that whatever his sister was doing was outside ordinary. Which was confusing, since the older woman responded as decorum allotted.

Lord Tywin looked to focus on his wife and made an effort not to speak without command. "I trust her to advise and prepare you as your time nears."

Again, the speech would be appropriate under normal circumstance, but somehow it felt awkward between these three people. Either way, Sansa nodded to her husband and turned her pleasantries toward her new... midwife.

"I thank you, Lady Genna," Sansa began pleasantly. "Your availability in answering any questions I may have is certainly appreciated." It was said with a smile, though both women knew it for no more than show.

Tywin interjected in a tone of authority, one that shot him with annoyance from green eyes and confusion from blues eyes. "She will also be in the birthing chamber with you, Sansa." He cleared his throat at his sister's continued scrutiny. "If you wish," he finished displeased.

At that very moment Sansa knew the exact amount of dependency she had on her husband. It had never occurred to her that he wouldn't be with her when she delivered; it was a thought that caused her to gulp and fight against the want to breathe shallow.

"I... want _you_ there, my lord."

A statement made in all confidence, but the eyes she laid on Tywin were in utter panic. He tilted his head in question at his wife, and before either of them could make an utterance, Lady Genna spoke in a way that reminded Sansa of Cersei. It was a tone that harboured a sense covert assessment.

"That may be how it's done in the North, but rest assured, my lady, Tywin would be about as useful to you in the birthing chamber as teats would be on a bull."

Sansa blushed scarlet and stared at the woman, her mouth agape slightly, not knowing if Lady Genna understood the consequences her words could earn her. She looked again to her husband who, at once, stood up, raised his brows and scoffed as he walked out of the room.

"The same amount of couth as always Genna."

They were left then, the two of them, two ladies, staring at one another. The older wore a hint of a smirk, the younger a perfect mask of courtly indifference.

Sansa appreciated Tywin's thought of her well being, but at the same time she couldn't help but think he sent for his sister out of selfishness too. The only thing she knew of this woman, with any certainty, was that she was a Frey.

"You don't know me, yet you don't like me." There was no offense carried in Lady Genna's words.

If she could have, Sansa would have remained silent, but her courtesies would have none of it. "You're half right," she replied. Perhaps not her courtesies per se, than more her sarcasm - a lingering trace of Tyrion's influence.

Lady Genna grinned broadly, in a way that included her eyes and not just her mouth, and barked out a laugh. Tywin's sister was anything but a soft wife, wrapped in duty and propriety. "Ty said you were friend to the Imp." She narrowed her eyes at Sansa, her tone remained as pleasant as one could wish from a Lannister. "I tend not to speak anything of the boy to his father anymore. However, whatever doubt hisinsistence left, you've just eradicated."

Sansa's brow came low and pinched. "How would three words tell you differently?"

The features of Lady Genna's face softened as she spoke. "Who do you think Tyrion learned those three words from, child?"

Sansa dipped her head to hide her smirk, her scoff was unmistakable though.

"I'm happy to be spoken to with the words of my nephew. But tell me, Lady Sansa, why do you look at me with the wary suspicion of my brother?"

Any humour, no matter how slight, left the room. Raising her head, Sansa's face wore nothing of the pleasantness it held before. Instead it was with a deadly countenance she addressed her husband's sister. "You are a _Frey_ ," she leveled _._

Lady Genna needed no further explanation. She was cunning enough to know Sansa's history, to know the singular betrayal that cut her to the bone.

"I am no more a Frey than _you_ are, my lady." Genna looked thoughtfully at the young lady wearing the stony face, before continuing. "My father was a fool, talked into giving me away to a second son when I could barely count past what my fingers showed me. The only person who spoke against my father's stupidity was Ty, and _he_ was only three years older."

Sansa was rapt at the tale, but outwardly showed nothing of her curiosity.

Lady Genna smiled then and it was nothing like Cersei. It was not overly gentle, but where the Queen looked on with an air of malicious judgment, _this_ lioness promised truths - regardless of the toll, yes, but in _that_ she was like Tywin. She was familiar and something of a comfort.

"Were you there, my lady?" Sansa's voice was small but her eyes were confident. "At the... wedding?"

She had spent many moons trying to forget what her mother had told her, only to have those same words haunt her, sometimes for nights on end. But if there was to be any form of trust with this woman, there had to be benchmarks for honesty.

The older woman looked at her carefully before speaking, looking almost in appraisal. "No, child. My interest does not extend to the spawn of Walder Frey - it barely reaches my husband." Genna paused to quirk her lip in something of a smile. "I am a _Lannister_ , and would have been quite a prize for the North if I had been within their grasp."

It was Sansa's turn to scrutinize; she tilted her head as if to see Lady Genna at a clearer angle. "Did you know about it?"

"I knew that Emm was to be Lord of Riverrun before the crown reneged its support. I also knew that Tywin would have ensured that agreement was honored if Riverrun had fallen." The older woman inhaled deeply through her nose. "Whatever plans that were conceived, remained among only a handful of people and _I_ was not one of them."

Lady Genna flashed a look first of disappointment then of anger, and it was in that brief heartbeat that she looked like the former queen. Recognizable was the look of a woman whose ambition outgrew their expected role, and to be reminded of that fact was tantamount to slander.

Sansa knew her place in the world, she had known it almost as far back as she could remember. And for the longest time she thought that meant acceptance of weakness, acceptance of inferiority and complacency. It wasn't until King's Landing that she understood the kinds of horror her mother and father had sheltered her from. She knew that this world had no room for weakness, inferiority or complacency - _die and get out of the way -_ and required its own mechanism in order to survive. Cersei had told her that a woman's weapons were tears and what lay between her legs. Tywin had taught her that those two things were anticipated lures and a true weapon would be something unforeseen.

The older woman inclined her head and watched Sansa sift through her inner deliberations. Waiting a handful of moments before talking. "You may wonder if I oppose Ty for marrying you as a strategy during war." Hers was a tone of certainty. "The answer is _no_. He is my brother, he is my lord, and I will support him to my dying breath." The face of Lady Genna softened then, considerably, so much that Sansa could feel some of the tension leave her muscles as she absorbed the offered truce. "I can, however, assure you that I know how you felt. Perhaps, how you still feel..."

The look of the older woman reminded Sansa of her own mother, how she would always just _know_ , but Lady Genna was far more openly shrewd.

"Although if you are _truly_ unhappy, you hide it much better than most, girl."

Sansa smiled at her then, a grin to match the older woman's words and opinions - something honest.

"Come, Sansa," Lady Genna said, making to stand and help the younger lady out of bed. "You must be close to lunacy sitting stiff as a corpse in this room."

"I have one more day, my lady. The maester said I was to remain unmoved for a sennight."

"Are you in pain or discomfort low in your belly?"

Sansa took a moment to wriggle in places and consider. "No..."

Lady Genna spoke, and it was with the same air of mischief she both loved and treated cautiously in Tyrion. "Bugger the Maester! When that man has birthed a child, we'll take him to heart."

 _We'll_.

She was sharing the blame already and for some reason Sansa felt at ease. The effect was boggling, but in the same breath it made sense. If this was the woman that helped shape Tyrion, then it wasn't such a stretch to, at the very least, enjoy her company like she did her friend.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He did not know if he was remembering this part of childbearing correctly.

Tywin simply wasn't the man he was three decades prior when his first wife experienced the same... _fits of need_. Sansa was young, but he didn't know if that was directly proportionate to the amount of desire she was exuding. He couldn't recall clearly if Joanna also demanded attention nightly, sometimes daily as well, or if it was something he had obliged without consideration then.

Either way, he was no more that young man than he could conjure the amount of virility his wife required to be sated - regardless of the persuasion she put forth.

Although, it was not to say the man didn't try.

However, exhaustion had claimed him mid-stride earlier in the evening, and coupled with his wife's look of agitated disappointment, it was one strike against his pride too many. So when Tywin woke to find his wife panting at him for a second time that night, he pushed her back firmly into her pillows and drawled in sleepy bitterness. "If you persist in waking me for no other purpose than to rut, it will be _I_ that sleeps in the other bedchamber."

Sansa said nothing. The only sounds coming from her in the dark were whimpers and the distinctive noise of her writhing in her want. His wife demanded nothing of affection, just the act to scratch the itch of lust. And hearing her beg without words provoked his cock to harden against his will. But even that initial pooling of arousal drained him of the strength he needed to act on it, and he knew that if he fought through the lag he would be useless in the following days work.

His duty to the realm would always be his priority.

When he made to lie back down, he felt claws dig into his shoulder.

"No, you _can't_..." Her voice sounded of desire, all breathy and low.

She would _not_ command him, his mind snapped. She would _not_ control him. "I _can_ Sansa, good night." It was final, his tone sharp and impatient, but her nails dug in deeper as he moved further away.

When she attempted to shuffle her body to follow him, with a great amount of difficulty, his annoyance stepped forward. She was too far along to be maneuvering like she was and her disregard was like a slap in the face. Tywin rolled toward her, and even though his grip was gentle and his hand was guiding tenderly, his throaty growl as he did so was set in anger. Once he had her settled again, propped a little higher on her pillows, Tywin roughly grabbed and yanked at the hem of her bedgown. Hearing it tear he waited for his wife to protest and end the foolishness on her own - he hadn't expected her to spread her legs and encourage him with a moan.

It only served to annoy - _and harden_ \- him further.

Sansa had been forgoing sleeping in small clothes as of late, and his fingers brushed the damp curls at her juncture as he pulled material upward. The action unleashed another moan into the quiet of the room, but from whomit came was the question.

In the darkness he missed her reaching; she groped the length of his prick through his bedclothes, which rewarded her with the sound of air being punched out of him. He gripped her wrist firmly and pulled the adventurous hand until it was in front of his face. Shifting his grip upward, Tywin straightened her fingers.

Sansa had begun to speak a plea to her husband, but snapped her lips shut when she felt her fingers being placed on his tongue. His mouth closed around them as he laved thoroughly. She wrinkled her nose. Her inclination was to be disgusted, but her mind presented images of intimacies _she_ had instigated in that very bed with her own tongue and her mind settled on being confused. Her husband removed her fingers from his mouth, tugged her hand lower to where he'd pushed aside her nightgown and pressed them, with his own firmly placed on top, into her heat. She gasped at the touch, then blinked fast as she felt the buzz of Tywin's voice, a inconsequential sneer, reverberate from her ear to where her fingers rested.

"Do it _yourself_."

This time when her husband rolled away, Sansa did not follow. Her lungs took air deeply as she moved her fingers in the way she liked, the way that made her mind feel like it was singing - whose notes sometimes escaped her thoughts by way of her mouth in a moan. With her belly at such a great size she had to lean to reach, but there was no strain in finding the fleshy knot she knew would unlock the satisfaction she was hunting. In small circles and teasing contact, Sansa worked her clit stiff, she could hear wetness build and even her own mewling drove herself wild.

" _Fuck_!"

The angry pointed curse ripped through the room. The word startled Sansa, but it was the distinct motion of Tywin forcefully getting out of bed that completely snuffed out whatever pleasure she was careening towards. She instantly felt annoyed, but then pangs of guilt hit her - she did not consider how loud she was, how her actions would disturb his sleep. _Her_ needs were her focus, not her husband's.

She waited to hear the door open and close signifying his leave, but rather felt his strong arms and hands curl under her tenderly, lifting and pulling her toward the edge of the bed. She was left sputtering in question, she could not determine his intent; likely he was taking _her_ to the other bedchamber.

Her bewilderment turned to dust when he rucked her bedgown over her belly, exposing her, and positioned himself between her thighs. He didn't speak a word, didn't even remove his bedgown past hiking it higher, but Sansa could discern Tywin was huffing in both exasperation and passion. The dark room was to her aid, as she knew the broad smile of victory she wore would have only made him angry.

That same smile was abandoned the moment her pressed into her. The filling pressure he provided was more than relief, it was euphoric, and the blissful groan she cast to echo around them spoke as much.

Her legs were pliable, slipping down to dangle awkwardly even with her best effort at hooking them around his waist. Tywin took both and brought them around the front of him, pressed them together and hugged them for leverage, grunting as he fucked into her with every fraction of his frustration and desire.

It didn't take long for Sansa to reach her peak, clawing at the linens as the strong waves of pleasure swept the world away from her. She resurfaced to her husband losing his rhythm, swallowing air and muttering her name in huffs and coughs, When he ground into her as his own release claimed him, Sansa reached one hand as far as her body would allow her and dug her fingertips into the flesh at his hip. To which he snarled and fucked into her twice more, hard, before slipping out spent.

Tywin hugged her legs tighter, convincing his body to level its breathing, and after a few moments could feel them quiver. It wasn't due to the position he held them in, and as his breath evened and quieted he heard the reason for her shivering:

His wife was laughing. A low chuckle made of joy as much as peace of mind.

"This is funny to you?" His agitation could not be swayed, not even by a sense of jubilation.

"No, my lord..."

Giggling sent tiny rippling messages to Tywin, telling him her constitution remained. "Keep laughing," he huffed. "I will find someone else to do this in my stead."

Sansa hummed then, a tune that sounded playful, that sounded as though she was contemplating Tywin's threat as a viable option. She knew there was a chance of raising his ire, but her mind did not seem to care.

Her legs were still draped up his torso, her heels resting on his shoulder. She sensed him move back slightly then felt the sting and heard the clap of his hand swatting her backside. It was nothing punishing, it was almost as playful as her laughter, causing Sansa to laugh all the harder.

"Be careful what you wish for, girl," he growled, but didn't really growl. His tone couldn't be described as jovial, but it was certainly more casual than serious. "Spite is never comely."

Her arse was met with another spank, eliciting a giddy cry to spill from her lips. At the same time, her husband scooped her up again to shift her back further onto the bed before leaving her side. Sansa lay boneless, smiling like the satisfied wanton she was, reveling in the calm her release brought her and the delicate musky scent that hung in the air every time they bedded. She heard Tywin approach then, using a soft touch to seek her in the inky black, he gently cleaned away his seed and her wet.

When finished he once again cradled her in an effort to arrange her comfortably amongst her pillows, but as he leaned closer she wound her arms around his neck. Sansa kissed him on the face; aiming for his mouth, her lips landed high on his cheek - close to his eye as far as she could tell. There was a stillness between them for heartbeats before his nose nudged along her cheek until his mouth was over hers.

He kissed his wife deeply.

Tywin's mouth was dry, he was still breathing heavily through his nose - a testimony of their previous exertions - and that encouraged Sansa to kiss him strategically. First to wet his tongue and palate, then to slow his pulse. She knew of her success when he pulled away from their kiss only to rest his forehead on hers, purring his own music. Her fingers worked along the muscles of her husband's neck and shoulders as they settled in their silence.

His face was close, so when she spoke she barely needed the air to whisper. "I am now. Always."

"Always what?" His was a voice of stubbornness fending against exhaustion.

"Careful what I wish for." It came out sadder than it should have, but it could have been a trait of the whisper.

Tywin let out a heavy sigh as he brought up a hand, rested it on her crown and stroked his thumb over her sweat-dampened hair. "I suspect you would be."

Dipping his mouth again, he kissed her lightly before standing straight and walking back to his side of the bed. As he rounded the foot, his harsh serious voice tore through the haziness of the room. "You'll leave me alone now, _you_."

The corner of Tywin Lannister's mouth twitched at the sound of his wife's carefree laughter.

...

..

.


	19. Winter VIII

...

..

.

Sansa supposed she should have paid more mind to the throb in her back, but it was nothing she hadn't felt before, and she _had_ been walking when it began. Her time was close, within days, and her body was becoming a misery; ankles swelling, having to make water even at the thought, mood swings the likes of which caused Tywin to openly question her sanity - and entertained Genna to no end - a burning in her throat... and leaking. She was leaking from _everywhere_.

However, it must have been the culmination of everything else in her day that had kept her distracted from the ache in her back, because as she was she sat with Lady Genna and Queen Margaery for what had become their daily meet and dining, Sansa felt a torrent of wet soak down her thighs.

Stuck speechless, mortified, Sansa thought she had made water on herself - a thought shared by Margaery if the look on her face were to be judged. Yet it was Genna who recognized the malady.

The older woman spoke in a tone and manner that was not her usual sarcasm. She sounded the same way Catelyn Stark did in her dreams - the good ones, the ones that never caused her to wake in fright. "It's time, Sansa."

Words so kindly and gently said, Sansa had to fight back the wish to bawl in want of her own mother. _She should be here!_ However, that was not to be... That would _never_ be, and she had internally negotiated the terms of that despair long before this day. Sansa was now on her own journey to become a mother and it would be with the same determination she had used to survive and adapt to this point in her life that would see her succeed on the next path.

Helped to stand, Sansa found herself again mortified as another splash fell to her feet like a bucket being poured from her body - and _gods,_ she could not find the words to apologize.

None was needed. Genna, in her own way, came to her rescue again. Except this time the lioness wielded a kind of smugness that rang authentically Lannister. "Don't look so dreadful, Sansa, that is the _least_ offensive thing that will come out of there before you're done."

Sansa blinked around the shock of Lady Genna's gaul, of the pains in her body that only seemed to intensify, of her new reality, and watched a smile stretch wide across the older woman's face then heard the heartiest of laughs before she felt gentle hands guide and assist her to where she needed to be.

The birthing chamber had been designated and prepared in one of the suites of rooms that occupied the same level as their home in the Tower of the Hand. It had been a distraction for both herself and the Queen, as well for Lady Genna. Although the latter would never truly admit to the enjoyment of such frivolous things, the way she commanded the furnishing arrangements told the other two women differently.

Both Queen Margaery and Lady Genna stayed with Sansa as she was stripped and washed and prepared, and waited and anticipated throughout the remaining hours of the day, steadfast by her side. Patiently awaiting the arrival of the newest Lannister child - her baby - Sansa felt the creeping lurk of anxiousness and excitement. Yet she could not help but feel hesitant as well, on display as she was with the amount of midwives and maids that scurried around her.

The sun descended well below the horizon before the pain inside broadened and lowered, a vice-like thrum that sat stagnant as she slept in fits and bouts. It wasn't until the sun had risen again and moved to almost the same position it had been in when it all began that she knew her body was preparing itself to deliver. It was quicker than she had imagined when the time came and she was told to push.

Sansa had only bore down twice before her child slipped free of her womb, and whatever pain ushered the event went wholly unregistered - at least in immediate hindsight. Margaery sat beside her on the bed, stroking her hair, and Sansa focused on that particular bit of calm as Genna stood and walked to where a squalling infant - _her baby -_ was being cleaned and examined by the Maester.

Sansa could feel the sweat streaming like ribbons down her forehead and over her face. She felt queasy, but it was nothing compared to the excitement she felt. All she wanted was to hold her child. Between her dreamy thoughts a voice carried over the din in the room. One that snatched her happiness right out from under her. However, it wasn't _who_ the voice belonged to that was the threat, rather the words it put forth.

"More trout than lion this one is, a small fish at that. Our Lord Hand will not like this at all."

There was a vague recognition that speaking was one of the midwives who had been summoned to assist, but Sansa was not given time to think on it any more before she heard the distinctive sound of a swung palm meeting flesh. _That_ noise was followed by two more matching it, then the voice of Lady Genna speaking words Sansa had never heard from the mouth of a woman...

The furor grew softer as Sansa could only assume the midwife had been unceremoniously dismissed from the room. Looking up at the Queen, she smiled weak and gentle in reciprocation of the grin being offered by her friend, and as she opened her mouth to talk, Sansa's world angled sharply in a terrible pain. It was worse than before, she was sure, and she could feel hot liquid pooling under and around her backside.

 _His first wife died birthing... I can only hope the same for you and yours..._

The pain inside her was causing her vision to dim, at the same time Sansa knew her mother had been granted her wish. She heard Margaery calling her name, then heard Genna do the same. The Maester was talking to her as well, but all she wanted to do was ignore the warbling voices and curl up to sleep in the murk that was inviting her. More liquid pooled and she supposed it was her very life slipping away; there was so much pain... Sansa was so very tired, it was so very easy to just close her eyes and leave; so she did. Sansa gave up… Gave in to the restful dark and let it consume her; let it bathe her body in tingling relaxation...

The blackness did not last long before she was brought firmly into reality by an atrocious agony ripping through her. Death was horrible, she concluded. It was toying with her.

 _I want to hold my baby!_ her mind cried. Sansa looked to the side, to Genna, she wanted a message sent to Tywin... Lady Genna was smiling at her - a happy grin that split her face almost in two, the kind of smile used in celebration... Sansa was taken aback, then altogether angry. Who would _smile_ at someone so obviously dying?

 _A Lannister_.

The woman leaned in, her ample bosom helping to prop up Sansa's exhausted body, and spoke clearly two words that all at once lifted the heaviness from Sansa's mind and stabbed her with a pang of absolute fear.

"Push, girl."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The only person Lord Tywin trusted to inform him of the health and sex of his child was his wife. A request to some, a threat to others; regardless, it was the same policy employed by Tywin the first time he became a father. A preference that had nothing to do with pride, but was a matter of privacy. He had no interest in hearing about his family from a faceless, nameless servant. Nor did he care to hear a maester prattle on about diagnosis and procedure.

In the same way, he trusted his brother to be company, and his sister to summon him when it was time to go to his wife; like the first time.

 _And the second_.

Kevan knew the unease his brother was suffering. It had been almost two entire days and Tywin had yet to move from the room in which he chose to wait. Whatever work he sat down to address was soon shuffled aside or stared at but not read.

Some men drank in their anticipation, King Robert went to hunt. Not Tywin. His brother would never be left without control, even under the guise of celebration. He drank only watered wine and ate when food was brought, other than that he was silent. Even their best attempts at conversation faded into distraction and a horribly concealed brooding on the elder Lannister's part, but Kevan knew - as he had since they were children - that it was his _presence_ Tywin needed of him, not words.

When Genna at last entered the room, both brothers immediately looked to her searching her features for hints and clues, but she was just as much a lion as either of them - giving them nothing. She walked to her oldest brother and spoke in the manner he demanded of everyone around him, forthright respectfulness, the exact manner in which Lady Genna was not known to indulge. "Lady Sansa is expecting you, my lord."

Kevan clenched his jaw wanting to demand more information from Genna, but watching his brother tense in discomfort at her dutiful statement chased that desire away. Tywin could be rigid and cold, but it did not alter the fact he was just a man, and the feelings he chose to share with a select few were well anchored within mortality. His sister knew this too, and when Tywin turned stiffly to leave, Kevan watched as Genna caught their brother by the hand.

Wearing the grin that was expected initially, she tugged on her big brother, beaming at him like she had when she was barely able to walk, toddling after her siblings in an effort to play. The effect was instantaneous, the old lion relaxed - first his shoulders then the rest of him - and his face softened to a seriousness that was untroubled.

Genna was still smiling, giving her brother whatever solace he needed from it, from her, when he nodded gently. She took the silent cue and let go, still smiling as Tywin left.

The remaining Lannisters exchanged a glance before settling in. Walking to the far end of the room, Genna looked absently out the window and spoke in a tone to match, "I had a chair placed by the bed for him, he's going to need it."

Kevan scoffed lightly as he poured a cup of wine. "A son then?"

Turning to him in a slow deliberate way, his sister offered him a wry curve of her lips. " _Two_ of them," she said with an accompanied rise of her eyebrow.

He laughed, genuinely pleased at the news, but he was not about to miss the opportunity to trade barbs with his sister, especially if they were at Tywin's expense. "Gods, Genna, you've best left a maester in there as well."

Lady Genna shared the mirth of her brother, laughing in earnest, then flicked her glance to his wine, again arching an eyebrow and smiling wide, asking for her own.

Kevan obliged, again talking as he poured. "And Sansa? How fares the mother?"

"Wonderful."

Kevan nodded, acknowledging the continued good news, but frowned as he passed his sister her cup. She was wearing a look he had only seen on her twice, like she was fighting the emotion her biting humour and cool cynicism always overshadowed.

"Kev, she's not Joanna... She's young, but... She's something different, yet similar at the same time." Her eyes misted then, and her brother knew they would never develop tears. Genna nodded in the direction of the door as she spoke. "Those boys are well cared for with her."

It was a statement said in all seriousness; something that Kevan knew to mean his sister's words should be considered absolute truth, and one would be a fool to do otherwise. As he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side - a rare show of affection for either - he also knew his sister was speaking of _three_ boys beyond that door.

However, _that_ specific truth was one Kevan Lannister had known for a span of years now.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lord Tywin slowly entered the brightly lit room and felt his steps become hesitant when he saw his wife. Sansa was holding a small bundle in one arm and had her hand draped in the babe's basket that was set to her side. On the other side of the basket, past the bed, was a chair. It became his destination. Although the new focus did not ebb his hesitation.

His wife had not looked to greet him. In fact, she did not look anywhere except at the babe. Sitting down with his natural careful grace, his eyes trained on nothing but the girl hunched over the child, Tywin Lannister was gripped with a brutal anxiousness ripping away in the pit of his stomach.

 _The Imp_.

The old lion couldn't see the child clearly, he could not discern if... "What's wrong with..." He didn't even know if what his wife held was a boy or a girl. "...It?" he finished near a whisper.

Though she heard him clearly, Sansa did not answer her husband right away; entrenched in her own thoughts as she was. "Sons, my lord," she started, turning her head to meet his eyes. Her throat tripped on the newness of the word, but still it sounded distant.

At the same time his wife looked to him, Tywin flicked his eyes and looked away. Instead, he reached his hand to hers where it rested in the basket. It was as though he just then registered her words.

 _Her word_.

There was warmth and movement under his wife's hand. His eyes drifted over the rumpled blankets until they met the pink face of another babe. Sleeping sound, wrapped head to toe in plush linen, Tywin could just barely make out the tiniest of golden curls peeking out from under the swaddling clothes.

 _Sons_.

"Two..." It was flimsy at best, like he sat there dreaming. Tywin looked again to his wife, _his_...

She saw a brightness in his eyes at the impact of his own word; a brightness that faded when her face remained built of fear and agitation.

"Our firstborn..." she said shakily, looking down to the boy in her arm.

Tywin swallowed hard and sat up straighter. " _What_ is _wrong_ with him, Sansa?" His voice wavered in the worry he dressed as anger, his hand made to grip hers tighter.

Sansa pulled her hand from her husband's, pivoted the babe in front of her so he was lying perpendicular and tugged away the soft fabric from the top of her son's head, exposing wavy wisps of the most delicate auburn.

 _More trout than lion this one is... our lord Hand will not like this at all._ It was the only thing she could think of. All she could see in her mind's eye was Tywin taking her baby away without so much as a thought or care, and she did not want her child to suffer because _she_ failed to give her husband a golden heir, a proper lion. Her face tensed at the thought, she was far too weak to fight him - but she _would_.

"...has red hair, my lord." It was said with as much resolve as she could muster, which angled to confusion when she heard the man beside her emit something that started as a scoff, then extended to a throaty growl. Flicking her eyes to Tywin, she immediately saw his chest drawing and releasing erratic gulps of air and a look on his face that should have made her feel a fool, but did not.

"Your unnecessary dramatics will be the death of me, girl," he wheezed out, his brows pinched in annoyance. "I would hazard to question if you realize this, but I think it's all part of your ploy."

He thought to break the mood of tension, but his wife still held a look of consternation and suspicion. He didn't need skill to know what she was thinking - what she was thinking of him _._ Shewas calling him a liar with her eyes and calling him the worst kind of villain with her silence.

The all too familiar wash of ire crept into him as he noticed the walls around him began to disappear; with it was ignited an agony so fearsome it felt as though the thing was clawing and punching its way out of his chest.

Even though he was concentrating on his words, they came out shaky and furious. "Do you really hold me in such low regard, Sansa?" He stood then, equally shaky, so enraged at her persistently hollow perception of him. "Did you think I would walk in and... and what? _Drown_ him?! _My son_?! Because his _fucking hair_ is the same colour as his _mother's_?!" His bellows were felt more than heard; Tywin was not so callous as to disturb the babes, regardless of _what_ his wife thought of him.

 _Gods_ , he was hurt and it was to the core of him, to the root of what he felt for her. She could have done anything, stabbed him, bled him, and it would not have wounded him as much as her opinion that he would harm his heir for something so trivial.

Sansa was cringing, her teeth bared, once more holding her eldest in the bend of her arm and holding the tiny foot of her youngest as he lay in the basket beside her. She was becoming overwhelmed. Her eyes were red and brimming with tears, but she held them back; however, her mouth watered in her fury and sadness causing her to speak in a gritty tone. "I am _not_ blind, my lord. I saw the way you treated Tyrion." Her tears fell then; no sobs, just angry tears marking her inability to do anything else. "Is my fear so farfetched?"

 _Of course it is_ , her mind sneered, _he_ _loved_ that _wife_.

At her words, it was Tywin who was baring his teeth. He was wroth, but his mind was tilting his ire from his wife to him, then back again - it was all getting too volatile.

She watched her husband, seething each breath that sustained him then turn on his heel to leave. Sansa's unchecked fury was something dangerous.

He heard a low voice, furious and menacing, completely new and so unlike his wife.

"Don't you fucking _dare_ leave _._ "

Tywin stopped dead. He had to turn back and look at Sansa in order to ensure she was still the same person. If he did not know her youthful age outright, he would have thought the lady in front of him some sage entity, someone or something he would be wise himself to heed.

Their roles reversed themselves. Lord Tywin Lannister felt a boy then, foolish and so full of pretension it was vulgar, standing in anticipation of fury from a politic woman. She wore a face that was not her own, not one of the masks he had become familiar with, not even a look she had adopted from him. This was a demeanor all her own, built from a storm of rage so absolute it made the old lion flinch openly.

It was the look of a mother protecting her children; of a lioness protecting her cubs; of a wolf-bitch protecting her pups.

It was undeniably breathtaking.

It was undeniably frightening.

Tywin was fidgeting, his eyes flicking and darting. He was at war inside himself and normally this would be when Sansa would dutifully acknowledge him, nod her head and allow his ego and emotion an exit. He was waiting for her reprieve and she had no intention of giving it.

Flicking her eyes to the tiny bodies around her, Sansa cut her question deep, the words sliding past her lips as less than a whisper. "Would you hate them so much if _I_ had died?"

Their eyes locked and in that sliver of existence Sansa, for the first time, saw her husband as an equal. His face was scarlet and sweating, his lips were quivering, and Sansa could see that it was with every thread holding him together that he fought to speak his answer. She looked away from him out of some ridiculous courtesy ingrained into the fabric of her, but when he spoke she was glad of that same decorum.

" _Yes_." He had to physically shove the word out of his lungs, an action that made it hiss long at the end. His whole body was trembling. He could only think of one other time he felt that way, so out of himself that the threat of madness made blind lunges at his mind like a rabid animal - the last time he stood on a precipice above that particular abyss he was staring at a dead wife, not a living one.

Sansa wept freely now, silently.

No longer angry, no longer consumed by loathing, she let the horrible truth take her - so horrible because she didn't know if she was appalled or elated at her husband's admission, his confirmation of emotion, of something deeper. Her lord. Her lion. She did the only thing she could and reached to hold the hand that was hanging limp at his side. Sansa held it in a grip of iron; a grip she hoped would tell him the words she had never allowed her mouth to make, as well as the promises her heart had already pledged to the two boys who were now the entirety of her world.

He held her back. Her hand; the only part she gave him. It did not matter, he would take it and be grateful.

Sansa had not looked at him, had not raised her eyes from the russet-haired infant blinking at her from the bend of her arm; of which, her long fingers wrapped themselves up and around the legs of the babe as the delicate ribbons of a mother's love were always apt to find a way.

 _His_ babe. His _heir_.

Whatever torrents of bitterness that were between them, mother and father, moments prior, were dissipating as nature dictated. Washing away the worthless turmoil and leaving only truths - some ugly, some beautiful, but every single one valid and necessary.

Lord Tywin sat down again, silent and observing, holding the hand of his wife, _the mother of his children_. It was heady and far more than he had anticipated, far more than he allowed himself to remember it being, but that was for the best. He would much prefer the experience feel new than yet another resurgence of past pain. With that he lifted her proffered hand and brought it to his lips. He did not kiss it or make a show of affection, it was with an air of absence he pressed his mouth onto her impossibly soft skin as he watched, hypnotized as his son's own wet lips worked and yawned.

The trance was broken when Tywin felt the slender fingers he was admiring wriggle as a sign to set them free. He didn't want to let them go, and as he watched them leave his grasp there was protest on his tongue until he discerned their intention.

Sansa maneuvered their first born so she could hold him out to his bewildered looking father. "Hold your son, Tywin."

His wife sounded more like his mother, but it mattered little and less to the old lion. Biting back his apprehension, he took the small thing - his hands and arms remembering everything they were taught decades earlier - cradling the calm and curious babe. _So bloody small_. He forgot just how minute life could be; his son did not extend the length of his forearm. He was alert though, this tiny version of them, eyes wide and dark - the colour not yet set - with the finest of silk for hair, the same rich auburn as Sansa.

Tywin ran the tips of his fingers over the top of the boy's head just to confirm the reality. The added reality was looking to his wife and seeing a second son, equally tiny, sleeping sound where she had lifted him to her breast.

She caught his stare in her peripheral, nothing exceptional, nothing that had not happened a thousand times before. So when she looked directly at him, Sansa was not expecting to once more spill silent tears. She was not expecting to shed tears that came with a broad smile, a smile that was reciprocating Lord Tywin's own. Not a grin, not a smirk, but a wide smile that made her husband young. It removed the severity in his face, smoothed out the rigid lines, and angled his brows to a position that signified happiness instead of suspicion.

The Great Lion watched a delicate hand reach long and touch the evidence of his ability to be contented. This time he _did_ kiss the fingers that brushed his lips and smiled true at her, for her, because of her, as she retracted her hand and smiled back. The gods be damned, he _was_ happy, intoxicated even, and nothing could change that fact in that moment.

His eyes again drifted between the pair of lions his lady so bravely set into the world.

His _sons_.

"Tysan." It was said to the babe in his arm, but it was meant for Sansa as well.

She scrutinized him then. Sansa had almost dreaded the name her husband would choose for their child, _children_. She felt it corroboration that she had no control in her life; that outside whatever freedom Tywin granted her in their union, she would never truly be free. It had been a conflict of duty, but like most instances of doubt of this nature, Sansa was proven a fool. All she ever had to do was trust him. Trust him to do best for not only himself and the Lannister name, but for her as well. It may not have been romantic, but consideration, regardless of the emotion or motive or gain behind it, meant he thought about _her_ and weighed _her_ benefit as well.

No, not romantic, but perhaps their version of it.

"It's a good name," she said, smiling at the newly named boy. " _Tysan_ ," she cooed.

Tywin scoffed lightly, in a pleasant tone; of course it was a _good_ name.

"And him?" Sansa looked to the babe who felt no need to trouble himself with his new world like his older brother. "What of this lion?"

Her husband spoke to the slumbering bundle less than an arm's reach away without any hint of pause. "Rykar."

She rolled the name on her tongue and was taken by the familiarity, the comfort it brought her.

It tasted northern.

Their second son would be positioned in the North, of course his name would be a reflection of that. She felt as though she should want to be angry, but _that_ specific tinder was damp and she had nothing left to strike a spark. She smiled down at the golden-haired babe and spoke in a quiet voice, " _Rykar_."

They sat there in the comfortable silence that was their way, listening to the tiny squeaks and fussing of their children.

How odd.

How new.

Sansa thought back to a conversation she had so long ago, one in which she was to be married to a monster, one in which she was told that regardless of the immoral machinations of their sire, her children would be the focus of her love. It was such an elusive concept to be told, and considering the source, it was never an opinion she held with any regard. But here it was, the truth of it; the living, breathing embodiment of that particular knowledge. Equal in truth was that she did not marry the monster from that conversation. And as Sansa casually tilted her head and looked at her husband - her uncharacteristically _smiling_ and _happy_ husband - she knew the moniker was a relative term. More so, she knew that detail all along.

"Red and gold." Tywin did not take the focus from his tiny prize when he softly muttered the words, but when Sansa did not question or acknowledge them, he flicked his eyes in her direction. She was looking at him wearing the smile that was his, but she looked tired too and somehow it was pleasant on her. He could feel foolish of his sentimentality, but it was already out there between them, so he chose not to. "You have given me Lannister colours, my lady." Even his words smiled.

Sansa huffed a small laugh and blinked slow - she _was_ tired - idly gauging the softness of their son's curls in her fingertips. "I don't know if your bannermen will agree with you."

Tywin breathed his own scoff, shrugging as he spoke. "They've not much say in the matter." He looked back down at Tysan, considered the serious babe. "Lions, but they certainly have wolf in them."

Looking down at the sleeping bundle in her arm - _Rykar -_ Sansa really couldn't distinguish much more than almost invisible golden Lannister hair and a red, wrinkled face. _More like his father then_ , her overtaxed mind snickered, then moved on. "Trout perhaps, my lord," she said "I am of my mother." The words felt like a random thought even though it was perfectly in line with their conversation. Her exhaustion was catching up to her.

"You carry Tully markings, true, but not everything about you is from the Riverlands."

Sansa perked up as he spoke to their child in direction and to her in what he was saying. What he noticed in her. It was shallow and discourteous to want praise, but it did not mean she craved it any less.

"When you are well into thought," Tywin continued softly, flicking his gentle eyes to her. "Or in the midst of conquering men and women with your charm..." Sansa blushed at him then in such a way that Tywin resolved to make the effort to compliment his lady more often. "...it is your father in the set of your jaw, the stern focus of your eyes, and in the conviction of your words and opinions." Tywin looked back down to Tysan and muttered, "Very much Eddard Stark."

Her head dipped and she looked at Rykar again. This time fighting the sadness of thinking of her father and looking for the very man in the babe she held. And there it was, all it took was a tiny shift of the lips and gentle tilt of the brow and she saw her father - and Robb, and Bran, and Rickon, and so much of Arya.

Sansa was far too tired to weep, so she smiled instead, her flagging thoughts finding voice as she marveled dreamily to her sleepy son. "You are equal parts of your father and mother."

Tywin spoke to her claim, distracted in his own right. "All children are."

 _No they aren't_ , her mind buzzed. "Joffrey had nothing of King Robert in him." Her mouth spoke clearly, albeit absently, what was meant to stay in her thoughts. "Nor does Myrcella and Tommen..." Sansa felt like she had dozed, her heavy eyes aching for the relief of being closed, but when her husband growled in a dangerous tone of warning, her mind prickled in sudden wakefulness.

"Tread carefully, _wife_."

She snapped her head in his direction, he was only looking at her with upturned eyes - they were angry, but there was something else in them too. Something telling of what she said and what it meant to him... _Truth_?

Here was her choice, her crossroads: pursue what could be the truth that perpetuated a war and devastated a kingdom, _devastated her_ , or not. Her eyes drifted lower to the boy Tywin held in his arm, then back up to man who was silently questioning in which direction their relationship would now travel. She slowly reached over and brushed her fingers through Tysan's hair, smiling as he wriggled to catch sight of what disturbed him, then reached higher and stroked the cheek, and hair there, of her children's father.

"I tread no further than those in this room, _husband_."

Her honest words were as soft as the touch she laid upon him and Tywin could not defend against them both. Closing his eyes he leaned into her fingers and let out the air his body was holding captive.

 _Family_.

 _Duty_.

...

..

.


	20. Winter IX

...

..

.

Sansa took to her baths as though she were seeking refuge. The bathing chamber in the Tower of the Hand was at a level of opulence one would expect in association with Lord Lannister. The room was expansive and held stations for various forms and stages of bathing, but the jewel amongst them was the tub. Built of thick copper, the vessel was large enough to accommodate Sansa at least six times over. Each wall inclined slightly, ensuring comfort at any angle, and retained enough heat in the depths of the metal that her maids said it took well over an hour to cool completely.

Edging the outer sides of the tub were embossed ornate gold lions and engraved flourishes directly in the copper. They were of such fine detail, Sansa found something new every time she looked. The most intriguing aspects were that parts of those same decals wandered over the rounded rim to the inside; where Sansa would place a fingertip over the gold that formed and seemed to drip just above water level and marvel how she couldn't feel where one metal met the other, or how the etchings in the copper held no sharpness at their delicate edges.

But, beyond that. Well above the excess displayed, reaching further into Sansa's reason for pursuing this luxury to begin with, was the room's true beauty.

It was quiet.

This was her haven.

She would never deny her children time or love or attention, but she found in the subsequent moons since their birth that she needed to seek time for herself as well.

It had never been a thought before, time of her own; Tywin had not tethered her, really, and only required of her the duty that was expected from the wife of the Hand of the King, the wife of the Warden of the West, and the Lady of the Rock. As lofty as the titles sounded, they were simply roles she moulded into; ones she had been prepared for all her life... At least, the spirit of them. As a young girl, Sansa had never once imagined those same stints with such a man.

Regardless, motherhood was like she had been given a sword, shoved into battle, and told to fight for her life. A smile curved her lips as she sunk further into the hot fragrant water. _Unnecessary dramatics_. No, it wasn't a fight for her life, but it was a change comparable to that same sort of fear.

Her babes. Her sons.

As with their hair, the eye colour of her boys had no compromise, no mix or dilution. Her bright, bold Tully blue shone under the golden curls of their youngest and Lannister green, so light and flecked with gold, settled on the boy with waves of auburn.

"It's a blessing you had two," Lady Genna had snorted the morning Tysan's colour faded to green instead of the aqua it had been. "Only one, and he would have come out patchwork _._ "

Sansa huffed a laugh to herself as she watched her maids fill the heating trough in the hearth with more water. Soaking in her bath, she heard Tywin dismiss the maids personally attending her and adjust the small stool beside the tub to accommodate the reach of his legs. She wasn't startled or concerned; this was a routine that happened often.

From their wedding night, Sansa knew that the act of washing her was something Tywin enjoyed. In the beginning she acquiesced out of duty, perhaps out of fear too, but as time lapped over their marriage, smoothing down the jagged edges, it was a custom Sansa grew to enjoy herself. Never initiated out of arousal or sexual need; however, Sansa grinned to herself at the thought, it sometimes led to it. His hands, so strong and lethal, became delicate and restrained in these times. She had a sudden realization somewhere along the course of their time together - as her husband was tilting her head and washing her throat and shoulders one evening - and concluded that this was his form of prayer.

Lord Tywin had no use for invocation, only entering into a sept when accompanying her, and though his belief in the Seven was real enough so was his disdain for them. He had never admonished her attendance, he knew that she was not there for the gods, but for the aspect of reflection and remembrance. Though he would not participate in that aspect either. At least not with her.

He only ever arrived to the bathing chamber as he did now: already divested of his doublet. The rolling back of his shirt sleeves as well as the decisive placement of washcloths and soap began their silent ritual. He then moved her hair aside, exposing her neck and jaw line.

Tywin always started at the hairline of her brow, turning her face, sometimes her body, in order to tailor the reach and symmetry of cleanliness. When she would watch him wash over the jut of bone at the base of her throat, over her breasts and lower, gently scrubbing each finger and each toe with a focus as devout and somber as any septon that she knew he was in his place of worship.

Sansa closed her eyes at the feel of his attentions now and let flow a tumble of thoughts and memories which, of course, immediately returned to her children.

Her sons used furniture and people alike to take wobbly steps in their initial tastes of freedom. They had no interest in crawling as she had been told they would, seemingly preferring upright investigation instead. Rykar, the golden-haired Lannister with Tully eyes, was fearless in his curiosity and, she was sure, removing years of life from his mother every time he stood, walked, and attempted to climb.

She had smiled when telling Tywin that their youngest's sense of adventure was a very Northern trait, but stopped short at that, not wanting to remember the other little boy she had known with a penchant for climbing. Rykar would focus on the tall leather boots of his father if they were anywhere within his line of sight and attention, only to scramble as fast as chubby limbs and a not-yet year of existence would allow, then grasp at the polished surface with proportionately chubby digits, peering high, smiling toothless at his tall, stern-looking plaything.

"Insolence must be a Northern trait as well," Tywin had sneered, at the same time picking up his giggling, drooling progeny.

Sansa knew not to watch her husband directly, but to observe casually in her periphery, lest Tywin think he was being gawked at or scrutinized in his interactions _\- in his affection_ \- which would lead him to curtly distance himself then leave their company altogether. Like every breath and movement of her marriage, finding a balance to include Tywin in the lives of his sons was an accomplishment based on trial and error.

An accomplishment, regardless.

She knew very well he had a desire to be there with them, his family, when his schedule allowed, but Sansa learned through watching him that her husband did not rightly know _how_. It wasn't a surprising revelation. And what began as subtle timing, having their children sleeping near their desk in the later evening while he wrote and she read, became a purposeful confluence before they supped.

There was a war inside Tywin Lannister the first time his sons - one rambunctious, one serene - were ushered into their sitting room at a time he reserved, _no not reserved - just had always been_ , for addressing queries and subterfuge of the realm without the constant eyes of counsel... or the swindlers themselves. But there they were, his wife and his children, and he knew the latter would have easily been driven away if it were not for the former.

Because she smiled.

His wife smiled, and it ticked and pulled at him in a place deep in his bones, in the marrow of him. The place he conceded to give her, _watched her claim_ , only to have two more people join her there. It hurt for a while, to make room, but like everything pertaining to his wife, both time and her patience were a blessed salve.

They fit together, all of them, the four of them, because Sansa ensured that they did. When Tywin derided her, informing he had hardly the time to care for babes and run a kingdom, she proved him wrong by including their children in the same room they endeavoured in the evenings. When he scolded his wife, telling her that children had no place at their desk while they worked, he found himself on more than one occasion cradling a sleeping boy in one hand and a quill in the other - proven wrong once more.

He couldn't fault her, how could he? She admonished him without a single word, struck down every argument he presented by way of process, and made it - their lives - work around _him_. And as loathe as he was to do so, he would be a bloody fool not to acknowledge the affinity to Joanna.

It was on one of these nights that Tywin held the eldest of the two, the placid fire-haired boy who stared at him with his own eyes, reading missive after missive until he abruptly stopped, flung the parchment away with his fingers and stared livid at the babe. Sansa did not move past inclining her head, not wanting to startle the perpetually fussy, newly sleeping son she held.

"What is it?" Her voice was calm yet framed in concern.

Sansa fixed Tywin with a stare he did not return and started to rise - sleeping babe and all. He himself rose and lifted his hand, gesturing her to remain seated, allowing his agitated voice to turn silken as it floated over the child in his own arm. "I've been pissed on."

Her husband flicked his eyes to her and twitched the corner of his mouth, daring Sansa to laugh, before walking toward the nursery waving off the maid who started to follow. Ordering the girl to fetch clean clothes for himself instead.

 _An accomplishment, regardless_. All victories are small victories in the grander view of life, but none are ever meaningless.

Sansa looked to the man who was deep in a world of his making, washing and preening his wife, his tunic losing its crispness as the steam from the water seeped into the fabric. His eyes were soft, and when he looked at her directly he offered a smile. The truly genuine smile she had seemed to have earned since the birth of their children.

It was a sad truth, if one were to dwell on it too long. Years in his presence and it was when he smiled kindly, thoughtfully, that Tywin almost became a stranger to her. Although she would not discourage the practice; not for all the gold in Casterly Rock. Even if it was new and potentially suspicious to _her,_ it was a feature of their father that her children have known from their onset.

A smile from the Great Lion. A fragile thing she resolved to care for and cultivate for the benefit of her sons.

Sansa gave her husband a smile of her own just then. The one that had always been his - kind and natural. The one that spoke tomes in her eyes and honesty on her lips.

For him.

 _Him_.

The first time they had bedded after she delivered, Sansa watched her husband bend over her body and lay his mouth on every place she hated: every part of her that had been stretched, that had changed.

It was more than a shock to realize that once you became a mother nothing of the girl you were before remained. She was marked along her torso and curvier in her hips, and though her breasts were drying of milk they were not of the same firmness. She had wept initially, grieving for the girl she worked so hard to become, the girl she would no longer be. Until Genna found her in a crumpled heap and pulled her into her arms, cooing and soothing her as if Sansa were not but a babe herself.

A moment so very bittersweet; Sansa felt fit to choke. _A Lannister_ playing the role of her mother because her own mother no longer wanted her, hated her… and the _true_ pity, the _true_ sadness: Lady Genna _was_ relief and warmth. Lady Genna _was_ motherly, she _was_ a source of reassurance and knowledge in those first few moons, and she should not have been.

Sansa inhaled long and deep, taking in the hints of citrus and the floral notes infused in the water that surrounded her. Sweeping the tips of her forefingers against the tips of her thumbs she could feel the slight slick of tallow within her milky soak. The soft cloth and steady hand of her lord husband was now scrubbing gentle circles down the bumps and nooks of her spine.

She relaxed into her thoughts once more.

Tywin had kissed her everywhere. Everywhere and then some. The soft flesh behind her knees, the sensitive skin of her inner arm at her elbow, the crease where her thighs met her backside. He was heated, but he was not rushed; he coaxed her to turn over more than once in order for him to gently ravish her. When he placed his mouth over the tip of her breast, there had been a jolt of shame - _that was where her children were nourished_. But as he laved and sucked and moaned and continued to explore her body with his hands, her scandal tilted ever so slowly into ardor.

If there was anything she had learned about being a Lannister, it was that regret was folly and stigma only manifested if you allowed it. It was a strength to think in such a way and _that_ , she knew quite well, meant those qualities were not gifted _only_ to Lannisters. But as her husband settled between her legs and into the groove of her body, the one that always seemed to suit perfectly, Sansa began to tremble. She felt like it was their wedding night but worse because they had shared a bed for years and _now_ she was afraid. Not afraid of Tywin, but afraid of how she had changed. She was different on the outside and had no idea of exactly how different she was on the inside.

The desire had been there, the pool of heat inside her stirred, she wanted the man looking at her with patient eyes. Yet she had trembled.

Her husband moved again, this time out from where he fit so well until he was laid long on his side and encouraging her to do the same. Long strong arms embraced her, pulled her tight against the body in front of her, followed by soft lips seeking hers and his tongue pressing for admittance into her mouth.

Sansa had met Tywin's kiss, and fiercely so. Her own hands toyed and explored the side of him expose to the cool air, finding the peaks and valleys of her husband's body that she desired so much - his flank, his back, his hip, his arse. She had missed being so close, being held close without the protrusion of life between them. It was greedy to think that, the love she held for her sons was scorching and singular, but she allowed it of herself. Allowed of herself possessiveness of the man she was quite consciously burnishing with her body.

Even on their side, as her toes dusted his shins, they fit together.

Even where she was still a little soft at her middle, even how her breasts pressed into his chest at different height and volume, they fit together.

Even through her changes Tywin looked at her with an all consuming heat, kissed and held her with that same passion...

And that was the pith of it, wasn't it?

She felt a fool. No matter how she had changed or how she thought she was different, Lord Tywin desired her no less than he ever had. Perhaps now with an even greater hunger, and that was exactly what she wanted.

Needed.

Pulling away from him slightly, Sansa had locked his eyes and whispered through her hurried breathing. "Now, please... Now."

Finding his place in the cradle of her thighs once again, Tywin used one arm to brace himself and his other hand to guide himself into her heat. He had pushed into her folds slowly, sinking by the fraction - gauging Sansa for anything other than pleasure - until he had buried himself as far as their angle would allow. His heart raced at the hot clutch of her, his eyes looked intently at her as he made an effort to concentrate.

There was no hurt, no discomfort. Tywin had filled her and it caused that pleasurable coil at the pit of her to tighten in anticipation. When she looked up, it was at the alluringly familiar sight of his long throat; the cords of muscle pulled taut and straining further.

She could feel him fighting to govern the rapid breathing that threatened to end their intimacy far sooner than was customary. His belly pressed firm against hers, she interpreted the pattern of intake and exhale as it began to slow; it had been a handful of moons since they shared closeness, but it was a triumph nonetheless when she easily knew when to sway and churn, when to stroke her fingers over his skin, when to plant her mouth along his neck.

Tywin started to move in a lazy rhythm, groaning through long huffs above her. Sansa took her time, enjoyed the feeling of him before hitching her legs progressively higher from the backs of his thighs eventually to his waist, granting him her depths until he was fully sheathing himself within her.

His pace had been steady as he looked down at his wife, her eyes glinting in their foggy wonder, her mouth slightly open and smiling all the while.

 _My beautiful lady_...

"I've missed you." The raspy words fell out of him; they were never supposed to have caught breath.

It seemed she had known that of them. Sansa always _knew_. Yet another reprieve granted by his beautiful wife. And another when she pulled his head down to hers and claimed his sieve-of-a-mouth, kissing him deeply.

They had each taken and they had each given, more than once that night.

In the early hours of the next morning, before the realm could taint his day, Tywin had woken her with his tongue lapping in the most wonderful of places. He savoured the taste of her, the feel of her, the sound and the sight of her, and as Sansa woke fully, _she_ took her turn to explore...

Blinking out of where her thoughts had taken her, Sansa blushed hot and knowing at the tingling low in her belly. _Surely it could be blamed on the heat of the water_.

The now became prominent once more when Tywin set his first cloth aside. Sansa took her cue, accepting the hand he held out to assist her in standing. Turning away from her husband, she noticed the lingering touch of his fingers over hers as he used his other hand to retrieve another cloth and begin the tender methodical scour of her bottom and the backs of her legs.

He kissed her there, on her backside, before turning her to face him, and she miraculously found the will to repress the urge to chuckle. When her juncture became his focus, it was washed with high reverence, such a deft touch, and yet another cloth - this one far softer than the others, it was a pleasure all its own.

In these moments Sansa would sometimes rest her fingers over his. A wordless command. One that saw her husband peer upward and wait for the next one she would give. Her own inclination varied from instance to instance, but it was how Tywin looked at her every single time that prompted Sansa to offer such a gesture in the first place.

From her position looking down on him, from the very first time her desire crested her duty as she stood there, she saw an element of submission within Lord Tywin Lannister. Nothing groveling or dependent on the fact that she was elevated and he was not. It was the path of the pious to give in to what they deem divine, and in his place of worship the old lion reveled in the peace and awe of the flesh laid bare before him.

His eyes told of a want only to please, and if she so asked he would obey.

Control was never something fleeting in the man washing her, but it was a commodity he held terrifyingly tight. Even on the occasions he would pass it to her, there was always the possibility he would panic and yank it back without warning or regard for consequence. But in the moments Sansa held this control, _his control_ , she knew that the responsibility was great. For in those flitting specks of time it was she alone who influenced the Hand of the King.

She ruled.

And it was gloriously frightening.

Her mouth only had to utter thoughts, logical or brash, and the deed would be done. Even if her commands were ill-advised, Tywin Lannister would not rescind his word to her, would not admit to that kind of weakness.

Like everything that made them, the trust he offered in passing control to his wife was but one more test in choice and respect. Even though she had every opportunity to be overly demanding, selfish in her small pockets of autocracy, Sansa had never ventured beyond assisting the Queen in securing means to aid the downtrodden within the city and immediate crown lands without.

She could have anything, and his wife continually chose outside herself; in a manner that persistently garnered her, _them_ , his name and House, a reputation of goodwill, fairness... An overall love of sorts.

A _love_ for her.

Sansa's requests were only ever meticulously planned and considered from multiple angles. Never would she present a short term solution, only an answer to a problem and long term benefits of that solution.

His clever girl.

Equally, her commands also involved the encouragement to invest more time with his children, all of them... and his grandchild.

It was easier to feed the poor, but the effort was made.

For her.

Without a command or request on her part, Tywin finished the most delicate part of his wash. Then, holding her hand, assisted her in sitting once more. They both sat in the restful stillness of the room, his ceremony complete, as Tywin cupped water over the shoulders of his wife; watching fixated as the bathwater rivulets coursed and descended back.

Sansa hugged her knees close and watched the golden skin on the hand of her husband breach the surface of the hazy water and considered the contrast, then looked at her own colourless skin and scoffed internally - she, in fact, blended with her bath. She blinked a look at the man who was idly stirring the water, a gentle curiosity so much like their sons. He was beautiful, and that was no revelation, merely acknowledgement of fact.

As much as her bath was her refuge, her detachment and serenity, there were times she simply wanted Tywin _there_. It was no more a request than it was a need - for him to be close and for her to be safe. The past, those ghosts and terrors, always skimmed along her surface like the fragrant oils swirling on top of the water she sat in, and were just as difficult to evade. They clung to her sometimes, those nightmare apparitions, soaking into her skin, and the only way she knew to relieve the cinch of fear and darkness was to have her husband near.

Sansa's eyes were languid, trying to focus on the nothing colour of the water. When she spoke, her voice was like an audible representation of that same distraction. "I never wanted to play this game."

Tywin did not falter in this movement, he was well used to her vagueness in these times between them; though, instead of snapping viciously at his wife's inept queries, he opted to probe further. "What game?"

"Of thrones."

One side of Sansa's face pinched slightly as though it pained her. It was not the skin or muscles that were the cause - it was the sudden ridiculousness of her words.

Her husband paused a moment, his fingertips dipping lax into the bath and took a level tone. "The life we lead is anything but a game, my lady. You know that better than most."

She tilted her head toward him. Of course she _knew_ ; Tywin Lannister, _her husband_ , was a flesh and blood reminder that she was but a piece in the _game_.

He gave her a knowing glare, one without guilt or regret - nothing of the sort. There was only a heavy seriousness, the same look that bent men to their knees and broke the wills of any left standing. It was the same look Sansa had studied and dissected from her place at his side. The same look she found she could pull strength of her own from. And when he smirked at her, she knew that he knew his strength allowed _her_ to choose exactly what piece she wanted be.

"Though _duplicity of thrones_ hardly has the same ring." The words were meant to be playful, but fell between them as caustic.

His wife smiled at him anyway.

Bolstered, Tywin continued, "You were born playing it, Sansa. Just as I was." His hand returned to tipping water on her flank and back, but he was distracted, petting her mostly. "And like anyone born to our position, it is never a matter of want, it is a matter of duty."

"No one ever truly wins."

Her thought was a summation, not a question, causing Tywin to still his hand and look at her squarely. "No," he said in a tone built low. "They simply play their game. The rats scurry and fret and scheme and plot, and forget there sits an entire realm outside these walls living and dying at their whim. That it's the _kingdom_ that makes the king, and without it he is _just_ a man. The rats always forget their duty." Sansa could feel the tremor of rage where his hand rested on her back. "But they also forget how low to ground they are. That no matter the confusion they create, there is always someone sitting higher, seeing how it unfolds."

"Cats always position themselves in the tallest trees, on the highest shelves," she said, her tone was startlingly serious. "Even when birds fly over and taunt, they sit and wait patiently for them to touch ground." Sansa kept his eye as _she_ spoke _his_ very thoughts then, "Cats eat the rats."

Tywin felt his ire drain, replaced with something lighter. His thumb danced circles on the skin over her ribs, and the fingers of his other hand brushed clumped damp strands of hair from her face.

Sansa had returned her focus to the water she was sitting in as she presented her question. "Why didn't you take the throne? You had plenty of opportunity to be king." There was nothing accusatory about it.

"You are the second person who has ever dared ask that question." What he would not tell her was that he had called the first person _wife_ as well.

His wife looked at him sidelong, the corner of her mouth was turned up slightly but she wasn't truly smiling. Tywin dipped his fingers in the water and raked them gently in the luke-warmth, and asked, "What position is above a king?"

Sansa pursed her lips a little and thought. She was speaking toward the water, but her eyes stayed on her husband. "In Westeros, there is no..." she thought to place her words, "...regency higher than king."

She knew where he was directing her, so she turned before he could steer. "You rule regardless, Tywin, why not have the title as well?"

They were questions and thoughts based solely in curiosity, Tywin could sense that easily enough. It was always in the tranquility of the strangest places that they had their most intriguing conversations.

"There is no power in a title, power comes from perception. Who is feared more: a king, or a man controlling that king?"

Looking at the swirling oils in the misty water, Sansa arranged the images of her thoughts in order of sense and scenario. "But when the man who has controlled so many kings becomes king himself," she took a moment to ensure her words sounded right in her head before continuing, "no perception is needed to assign power where it truly rests."

Tywin felt a warmth in him that had nothing to do with the bathwater. He looked at his wife and smiled. _The canny creature_. It must have caught her eye because she turned her head to him fully and smiled back.

Her husband's mirth sunk slowly to seriousness. "If there is nothing above a king, in which direction is the only option for a king to move?"

Sansa's own smile flattened at her realization. "Down."

Tywin hummed his agreement then spoke with an edge of anger. "I have no desire to fall. Not when there are so many rats who would gladly watch and encourage it happening."

She did not know why, perhaps it was a want to alleviate the heaviness their conversation now bore, perhaps it was simply a want of fun, but she tugged them out of seriousness by way of whimsy. Sansa didn't look at him, but she grinned as she talked. "Then lets us run away." There was a pause, and for a heartbeat Sansa braced herself for his ire.

"And do what? Go where?" Instead he presented only genuine curiosity.

So, she played. "It hardly matters," she teased.

Tywin raised an eyebrow and scoffed, "But it does. How will I provide for our children?" Narrowing his eyes a little, he waited for Sansa to look at him before continuing. "I don't know how to do anything else, and neither do you - and it is for _that_ very reason dreams are dangerous."

Sansa held an indignant pause at his words - they were the truth, she knew very well the terrible effect dreams had on one's actuality, but it was hardly reason to ruin a moment of levity.

Her husband took a deep breath, relaxing his features and addressed her quietly, "You have learned to construe your dreams and aspire toward only those that are, or are potentially, attainable. You have also learned it the hard way." Tywin then looked and spoke in a manner she knew to mean his words were bonded, unbreakable. "Our children will not be initiated in such a way, Sansa, _that_ I promise you."

The information was serious enough, but it was also nothing she did not already know. Her newly rekindled adventure clambered for attention, and Sansa found she could not deny it.

"You have wealth, we could go anywhere," she said coyly.

Tywin huffed. Not in a berating manner for angling back to frivolous conversation, but something pleasant. "That's not running away, Sansa, that's _relocating_."

It was her turn; she smiled wider and laughed lightly - enough that her shoulders bounced in little movements. When her husband spoke, it was still with a pleasant tone - perhaps something more.

"I will always be Tywin Lannister, no matter where I go. Just as you will always be Sansa St-"

Whatever remnants of laughter she held, died immediately. Turning to him, it was her who was wearing the old lion's serious scowl.

Lord Tywin wore a look that was somewhere amidst confusion and amusement. " _Lannister_." he said.

It was an easy gaff, even for her husband. Hers was a name that rolled off the tongue like a lyric, _Sansa Stark_ ; playful and sunny, _Sansa Stark_. But that was not who she was. That was not who she made herself into. That was not who _he_ made her into. Oh, Sansa Stark was still inside, innocent and unblemished. She was there underneath thought and reality, pulling strings sometimes, like now, puppeting Lady Lannister in puerile behaviour. But Little Bird was in there too, and stupid Sansa, and Little Dove... She kept them all, those pieces of her, because without them the mother of Tysan and Rykar would not be the same.

"Please don't forget who I am," she near pleaded. Her words sounded so small, childlike.

Sometimes she let the balance of who she was before and who she had become slip and teeter, it was a thrill, but Sansa couldn't fathom Lord Tywin doing the same. More than that, if _he_ lost grip then she most certainly would too.

Tywin took a heavy breath. "I will _never_ forget who you are."

What an absurd promise. What an even more absurd relief. Though relief it was, and Sansa leaned toward him curling a wet arm around the back of his neck as she met his lips with hers. She sensed his long fingers working through her tangled hair until they had a gentle hold of her head.

Her soft lips worked over his in quick pecks and lazy kisses; ones that would lean into his mouth slowly and pull away at the same speed. Every once in awhile he would feel her tongue flick, tempting him to try and capture it in his lips. When he felt her mouth smile on his, he knew she was preparing a break; it was her tell, but if it had to be anything, a smile from his lady was the best advantage he could think of.

As Sansa settled back into the warm water, Tywin smirked at the maiden's blush she still managed to paint herself with at the slightest hint of intimacy. The corner of his mouth twitched and he knew his eyes were soft in their gaze upon her; she was a feast of loveliness and he was a starving man.

"And what is it that you want?" His words tasted of charm even though they were founded in the man's never ending conjecture.

Sansa grinned, sweet and true. "Not a thing, my lord."

He watched her turn her attention back to her hands swishing in the water. She could be such a dreamy girl bent on sing-song wants and notions, but over the time of their marriage Tywin came to crave that part of her just as much as he craved the astute young lady. It was a rarity for anyone to carry both traits, and even more rare to display either with the amount of tact his wife did.

Lord Tywin set to stand, using the side of the large copper tub for leverage, picking up an empty bucket as he stood to full height. Sansa observed her husband submerging the vessel to fill with her water, walking to the drainage grate to empty, then returning to do it again. The old lion repeated this action four times; the water level slowly revealed more of his wife as she watched him, her eyes content, her mouth angled to a shadow of a smile. Once satisfied with the amount of water remaining, Tywin turned to the hearth and lowered the bucket into the long copper trough, filling it with the steaming contents.

"Mind your feet." It was a placid command; always the same one he used before pouring hot water into the bath in order to raise the temperature.

Another ritual.

Always the same routine before he accompanied her.

The first time Tywin shared her bath, physically joined her in the water, he removed and added water then eyed her openly - first as he stripped bare, then from under half lids as he settled into the newly added heat - as _she_ twisted into the smallest form she could create, as far from him as the tub would allow. Sansa had only ever shared a few baths with her sister, and even then she hated it because Arya only wanted to splash and be unruly. But her husband did nothing more those first times than soak and rest, wash then get out again. He had never bothered or required anything of her.

She could not remember how many times they sat in the humid quiet before she reached out and touched his foot under the cover of murk. It seemed ludicrous to think back on it, as they had been sharing intimacies prior to that time. But the act of bathing felt sacred to her.

 _A place of worship_.

The old lion did not startle at his wife's initial touches, he kept his gaze steady and impassive. He allowed her caresses, light and tentative at first - almost as if anticipating retaliation. When none came, Sansa visibly relaxed from the ball she had curled herself into and furthered her investigation; in turn finding solace in the water once more.

Her husband sitting bare and unmoving in her place of comfort and solitude was an assessment. He was wordlessly, without action or overt pressure, challenging Sansa's mettle. It was one of the first times in her marriage that she acknowledged a strength inside her that had not been active, noticeably perhaps, before Lord Tywin tugged at her poise. Sansa had become proficient at adapting to everything that happened around her, she was an authority on overcoming emotional suffering, but to be placed at the edge of the repose she relied on for both adapting and overcoming required another skill altogether.

It required her to journey deep into the den she kept within her mind and seek her comfort there.

It meant living in two places at once on occasion, but the more she did it, the easier it became.

At one time she existed wearing a shell in order to survive Joffrey, something that made her noticeably wooden, it also allowed everyone around her to know exactly what she was doing - it displayed her vulnerabilities. This new shell grew under her skin, it moved _with_ her and left nothing for the vultures of King's Landing who sought advantageous carrion. It just so happened to be the same shell Lord Tywin Lannister wore, and had mastered, decades longer than she had been alive.

Some gifts - and what he had given her was indeed a gift - were weightless and invisible, but carried a value higher than any bobble or trinket. So when, in those early days of sharing her bath, her husband beckoned her to him using no more than a sway of two fingers on a hand resting on the edge of the tub, Sansa had no fear of getting closer.

When he maneuvered her to sit with her back against his chest, she willingly leaned into the warmth of him.

When he rested his arm around her middle, she rested her hands on his thighs.

Because he had taught her that real solace does not live in a chamber with a tub, or in a chamber at all, but is rooted deeply inside everyone individually and can never truly be taken away. So peaceful and content was she that first time, Sansa woke up wrapped in soft linen being carried to their bed.

It were those very thoughts she recalled as Tywin settled in behind her now, as she took her place between his thighs, reclined onto his body and teased little strokes and patterns where her fingers came to rest at his knees.

"Walder Frey is dead," Tywin stated casually, matter of fact.

He could feel Sansa tense against him only for a moment, then used the dissipation of that same tension as indication to continue.

"Not of old age, mind you."

At that he felt her body hitch, but whether it was a cringe or a laugh he did not know.

"Your mother's patience has paid off." Tywin acknowledged Sansa's palm now placed to rest gently on his knee under the water. "She knew The Twins would weaken at some point, and after moons of no activity he must have thought the same as the rest of us - that she'd moved on."

 _Moved north_ was in the air but not as words.

"Where did they find him?"

Her question was far from simple. In the time Lady Catelyn dedicated herself to the eradication of those who betrayed her, she had done so in the most visible manner possible. Hanging clusters of Frey and liable Northmen or sometimes just presenting a head on a pike along the Greenfork. The _justice_ of Lady Catelyn and her Brotherhood was swift, brutal, and far reaching. Her influence stretched as far west as Golden Tooth and as far east as the Saltpans.

The Brotherhood without Banners grew in size - _a feral battalion_ , as Lord Tywin described them - and were well trained and organized. During the lengthy winter, many a man and woman found safety and purpose within the ever-moving community. And though their numbers were rumoured to be in the hundreds, Tywin estimated they were well over a thousand and simply well hidden, both in the forests of The Neck and at the outer cusp of The Vale mountains along the Kingsroad.

The group held the admiration of small folk in the Riverlands and beyond, held aloft as saviours to most, and threatened to children as a comeuppance for bad behaviour. " _The Merciless Mother will find you, bleed you, and string you high_."

The Brotherhood had impeccable structure and hierarchy. Something Sansa could only assume was a result of her mother's highly meticulous nature.

They were also well funded.

Sansa's contributions became less frequently sought as villages and lesser lords alike started paying the Brotherhood furtively in exchange for goods, stores and protection. Lannister gold was never truly forgotten though; she would find the tiny parchment just as she always had since after watching her mother's silhouette fade into a forest, and endeavour to shuffle minute sums in multiple coffers around the books of finance the Warden of the West first taught, then trusted her to kept. She was always careful, never greedy, only taking from where it could be spared and never enough that it wouldn't be seen as nominal loss.

"What was left of him was found in the hall where your brother was killed." A heartbeat was given. "Trussed to a table and eaten alive by dogs, apparently."

 _Wolves_ , her mind corrected.

Only when Sansa felt her husband's arm encircled her middle, pulling her in tight, and his mouth rest at the top of her head, muttering nonsense words of reassurance, did she realize she was shivering in the torrid water. She closed her eyes and let him hold her. Tywin brought his unoccupied hand to drape over the soft skin of his wife's neck. His long fingers rested lightly around one side as his thumb drew gentle lines along her jaw on the other. There were no other witnesses to their intimacy save golden flames from the hearth and a polished copper tub; each reflected in the soapy white of the water.

As the bath lost the last of its pleasant heat, Sansa broke their silence. "Have you set a date for us to leave, my lord?"

The snows were all but gone in the South, and receding progressively in the North. It was time for Lord and Lady Lannister to move as well.

"Another moon at the latest," Tywin replied, his voice somewhat groggy to begin but steeling with every word. "You can start organizing ledgers and necessities to travel with us, but don't waste time with excess." The hand that had been warm on her neck brushed slowly down the front of her, over her collar and her breasts, until it met with its other at her midriff. "Take only what is needed. Everything else will be replaced or waiting at Casterly Rock."

Sansa nodded in acknowledgement of his instructions, then inquired, "When will you come back here?"

His voice was firm and he raised an arm to rest on the edge of the tub - tapping his forefinger as he spoke. "Eventually. When I intend to sail north."

Sansa knew he was panning through expectations, speaking carefully around them as he went on.

"Kevan will remain here in my stead while we establish routine at the Rock. You will act as the authority in the West on my behalf, until I send for you to come north." The words rolled out of him at a practiced cadence - they had discussed those very actions in detail, many times.

What she _wanted_ was the only information that mattered to her. "Will you tell me your strategy for the North?"

"No," he clipped dismissively.

"Why?"

"Because it does not concern you."

Her fingernails curled into the flesh above his knee and she spoke in a low venomous tone, "Yes, it _does_."

The arm left draped around her middle started to constrict, and while _that_ pressure wasn't terrible it was his fingertips pressing progressively harder into her ribs that earned Tywin a grunt signifying his wife's physical discomfort. When he felt Sansa's nails remove themselves from their dig into his skin, he relinquished his own grip.

It was something of a truce, but Lord Tywin was moody, not neutral, his bitter tone well established that fact. "Trust me or don't. Either way it makes no matter." He leaned in, pressing his lips to her ear, and growled low, "Until you lead an army there, girl, any agenda regarding the North will be of my own making - not _yours_ , not _anyone else's_."

Tywin sunk back to rest against the tub, his words causing Sansa to breathe in deep angry pulls. He could feel the hurt and rage coursing through her muscle, bone and sinew.

Lord Tywin did not care. Because above and beyond the wounded pride of his wife he had a plan, and Sansa had a significant place within it.

...

..

.


	21. Spring I

...

..

.

Tywin told himself he would sleep on the journey, but there he was rocking in time to the sway and pull of the waves that were cutting past the bow of his ship, awake and aching, thinking of his wife.

His vessel was the lead cog of thirty that departed from King's Landing, each with just over a hundred soldiers and filled to the brim with negotiated stores and provisions from the South. This was followed by another thirty ships bearing tradesmen and supplies required for both mending the North and the battle ahead. Behind those boats sailed twenty large carracks; broader ships farther out to sea, and though their chartered plot was the same direction their eventual destination differed.

Sansa had been palpably livid because he would not make her privy to his plans; although he _did_ enjoy the creative methods she employed in her attempts to discern the information she wanted. In his stately aft quarters, lying in a bunk equal to his rightful bed in both size and luxuriousness, the old lion had to adjust his breeches, and himself, at those particular thoughts.

Lord Tywin left Casterly Rock for King's Landing without fanfare, without daylight even. Accompanied by his personal troop of fifty men, plus fifty to support and serve. His only farewells were the ones Sansa bestowed upon him in the nights leading up to his departure.

Again he adjusted.

When he had taken his wife and sons to Casterly Rock, near the end of their travel, he had stopped the entire caravan and personally retrieved Sansa from the litter she was travelling in with their children. She had left the boys in the care of their nurses, donned boots, and accepted his arm and direction as he lead her to the front of the caravan. They'd been traveling the Gold Road exclusively up through the mountains where it still snowed in the evenings, then down again, and on the skirt of the rocky outcrops he assisted his wife in climbing stony natural stairs then stood with her on the flat jut that allowed view of the land expanse before them.

First the grey rocks and ground dotted then faded into weathered greens and a smattering of forest. Their perch offered a view above the treetops, where the forest became thick. Past the far edge of it a quilt of fields were burgeoning in vibrant colours.

But beyond that was evidence of life; of population and movement.

At the northern edge of that population, as though it had been carved from a punch of mountain itself, was the castle Lord Tywin was born in. The castle where he knew happiness as a small child, leading his brood of brothers in mischief. It was the castle his wife would command without him, and the land they viewed was but a glimpse of what she would rule.

"It's quite large... even at a distance." Sansa's inflection was airy, her mind obviously in the depths of contemplation. What she would not set to voice was that the image reminded her of looking out the heavy curtains of the Queen's litter all those years ago - some would say in another life altogether - and seeing Winterfell dwindling smaller over the rolling hills of the North.

Even at a great distance Casterly Rock was immense. It was a truth Sansa could admit freely; time may fade memory, but what she was looking at drew out the same sweeping awe that King's Landing did the first time she had watched it grow large on the horizon.

Lord Tywin watched the eyes of his wife flick and glide over the scenery before her, she was motionless otherwise. He also caught the upturn at the corner of her mouth; an action that softened the rest of her features.

"To your liking, my lady?"

He didn't smile the question at her in the slightest, but she knew well enough that he was not asking to create conversation; Lord Tywin truly wanted his wife's opinion. She turned her head slightly to him and widened her delicate smile.

It was all the answer she offered. To him it was a thousand fold answer.

Looking slightly left of where they stood, Sansa muttered softly, "Lannisport."

Her husband's agreement came in the form of a small noise. Sansa made her own when the size of the city she was looking at filtered into comprehension. Even tiny and at a distance it was vast. She knew the numbers, but they were only zeros after all, the scale of the city itself was what made it feel daunting - something that would only increase, much like its physical size, the closer they got.

"Three hundred thousand," she breathed.

Tywin scoffed lightly at her census recall and corrected, "More than that soon - I have approved expansion inland."

She merely raised her brow, continuing to stare distractedly, until she felt Tywin lean in close and breathe his words into the hair at her temple, made unruly by the wind.

"It is yours."

When she turned to face him fully, Tywin immediately felt his insides buckle. She looked as though she were about to tell him she did not want it. He knew she waited for the North, for her home, but as his wife the West was her station by marriage. The seat was her duty if nothing else, and at her lack of even basic recognition Tywin locked his jaw to steel and his eyes in a stony fury...

" _Ours_ ," she offered gently. Sansa breathed the word and raised her hand in the same instant.

The old lion watched his wife settle her hand high on his breastplate, dead center on his chest. Her palm covered the ornate lion's head roaring fiercely out at the world, and somehow in hiding the angry animal she doused his burgeoning ire. Sansa turned her head again to the land he so wanted her to see, yet her hand remained. He could feel the warmth of it, he was sure, and brought his own un-gloved hand up to rest over hers.

Returning his attention to the forest, and the land, and the city, and past it all to the ribbon of sea glittering just beyond, he rubbed tiny circles on the side of her thumb. Caressing the part of her that lay simply, yet so complicated over the heart of him; mayhap protecting it.

Tywin didn't know it needed protecting so much, not with any amount of certainty. However, what he _did_ know was that he wanted nothing more than to share his own home, the keep he fought and bled for, with his family.

As Lord Tywin stretched in the bed that wasn't really his, on the boat that was taking him further from the sons whose existence he plotted and the wife he calculated to bring into his life, he thought to make this the last campaign of his life.

Tywin Lannister was at an age where most men slowed to stop - atrophied even at the thought of pursuits which were once chased with limitless zeal in the years of youth. But he enjoyed the chase. Regardless of what it involved, it was part of the puzzle that existed around him. More so he trusted no one to perform at the level to which he pushed himself. In that it was far simpler for him to step into the fray and control the outcome of what he chased than wither to nothing in a castle.

A knock on the door of his chambers tipped his concentration to the present, and with a gruff instruction to wait, Tywin swung his feet to stand, preparing for the intrusion to continue. He was not surprised to see one of his squires, a boy from a distant Lannister relation that followed him from King's Landing; however, what did surprise him was that the youth looked uncomfortable.

"What is it Darin?" he breathed tiredly at the boy.

His squire held up a small parchment with a Lannister seal, cleared his throat, and spoke, "You have a letter, my lord."

"I see that," the lion gritted out, attempting to be patient.

When Tywin did not reach for the letter, the boy furrowed his brow and looked at him with bewilderment.

The old lion leaned down, almost nose to nose with his kin, and snarled, " _Who_ is it from, you dolt."

The blood drained from the boy's face instantly. When he replied, it was with a squeaky pitch of fear. "L-Lady Sansa, m-my lord."

As he straightened to full height, it was Tywin's turn to wear a look of confusion. "This just arrived?" he uttered with a tone to suit his features.

"No, my lord. Lady Sansa gave it to me and said to bring it to you once we were on the water."

"Why would _my_ wife give _you_ some cryptic correspondence?"

"I... I don't kn-... She trusts me, my lord?" Darin's face scrunched up as he inflected his statement to a question, perhaps hoping his lord would oblige him an answer.

The only thing Tywin obliged the boy with was an inclination of his head and a tightening of his lips, which meant the squire was dangerously close to enduring a reprimand.

"I'm sorry, my lord," he whispered as he ducked his head. "I don't know why Lady Sansa gave it to me." Darin offered the small letter even higher this time, his arm trembling from holding it out so long.

Tywin breathed out heavily as he snatched the missive away from the young man and closed the door without a word, half wondering if he would find the boy out there in the morning because he hadn't dismissed him verbally.

Walking deeper into his room, his legs as steady on the tilt of the sea as they were on steady ground, Tywin examined the folded parchment in his hand. A letter, and it was barely that. The golden seal was heavier than the paper, and almost as large as the folded square it had been affixed to.

The old lion sat once more on the edge of his bed, dreading to find the insincere wish-wash that wives thought their husbands expected of them - then chided himself for the thought. If he knew anythign at all, he knew his wife was nowhere near that type of woman. Pressing his thumbs down and away, the seal split and the missive unfurled to expose the neat script of his wife's hand.

No flourishes, just _her_ :

 _Tywin,_

_Know that I think of you often._

_Sansa_

He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace; an answer to the tiny spears of both agony and contentment, equal in their potency, that her note had stirred in him.

 _His clever wife_. She knew he would appreciate a terse sentiment far more than languishing in sentimentality, and it hurt in the best possible way to acknowledge that. Tywin's hand absently drifted to a centered spot on his doublet, just below where the lacing came to an end, and gently pressed two fingers there to calm the roar that persisted even without the accompanying breastplate and ornate lion.

His musing was brief as a clatter of noise outside his cabin severed his calm rumination.

Aboard the ship were musicians, a dozen of them and, what he had been told was, a very gifted singer. Tywin hated them all. He had tasked Sansa with the responsibility of securing them and she had not asked as to why he would need a bard, but her passing looks of amused judgment caused him to growl one at her regardless.

" _They provide a modicum of relief for men under pressure of fighting and dying_."

She simply grinned at him at the time then nodded and hummed in her charmingly defiant way as she began her search by penned inquiry. However, _why_ the infuriating men were traveling with _him_ he did not know, but if he were to hedge a bet it would surely land directly at the feet of his wife.

He smirked at her passive cruelty.

Thoughts seemingly influenced reality as Tywin heard the initial chords and dull thumps of music starting mid-ship. Though they were traveling north, their ships were hugging the coastal waters, allowing for favourable weather - allowing for socializing on the deck instead of being relegated below. Not that he minded; Lord Tywin had spent enough time at sea in his lifetime that he knew the value of past-time. But as soon as the first line of lyrics reverberated out of the singer's mouth, Tywin was exiting his bunk in long heavy strides to match his fury.

He did not have to go far, the boat itself was little more than two hundred paces from bow to stern, but it was wide and sturdy as was any flat-bottom trader.

The noise had congregated under the main mast; the scene unevenly illuminated by oil lamps securely affixed to various rigging. When he approached, there was a surprised appreciation from the men who had gathered to listen; until, of course, they realized the wrathful look carried by their liege was in direct relation to the song being crooned for their entertainment.

The Great Lion stepped into the throng and unceremoniously snatched the bard by the throat - thus ending his own serenade. "You _know_ better," he growled hotly in the ear of the young man.

As Lord Tywin pulled away from the singer, he noticed the musical compatriots riveted to their exchange. The men who were once lounging in the vicinity of the troop had all but vanished into the sea air. He took the opportunity to address the group in its entirety. "One more _note_ of it," the old lion's eerily sedate speech was as terrifying as that of a man prone to screaming, "One more _word_ of it, and you'll each exit this boat as an anchor."

It was the bard who spoke and bowed in reverence on behalf of the men around him, "Of course, my lord, of course." The man knew well his error. "It won't happen again... until... I mean..."

Tywin raised his hand, but did not say a word. He did not have to, he simply threw a glare that was both frigid and scorching, at the same time flexing his jaw in anger.

His message was clear.

The musicians were silent the rest of their journey.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The mouth of the Weeping Water was too small for the hope of navigating a boat the size of a cog successfully to the Dreadfort. It left only the option of using a tender to transport men, horses, and provisions to shore. The process was tedious, but it allotted time to send ravens as needs be.

A full six days passed until the handful of ships were emptied and men organized. Tywin had estimated four at the most, but was ahead of his scheduled timing by more than seven anyway.

Although it was the extra two days that gave them away.

The gathering of men in any number on the shores of the North were bound to raise curiosity and fear of all kinds. So when Lannister forces finally made their push toward the Bolton stronghold, it was little wonder that rows of pink banners bearing flayed men, met them less than half way into their journey.

Numbers were even on either side of the rough and shallow plane in which they encountered one another. But Lord Tywin would wager name and title that those wearing red and gold were the better skilled, better armed, and better led.

A white banner was hoisted on the Bolton side as a party of nearly twenty paced their mounts to the middle of the space in front of them.

Lord Tywin ordered assembly of his tent prior to raising his own white banner and leading a core group to meet the Bolton entourage.

"Some might think that white banner is Stark-aligned, Lord Tywin." Roose Bolton was known as a merciless man, a shadowy figure of high cunning and low morals. A man whom also purposely voiced himself with a soft timbre that required those listening to do so with undivided attention.

It was instant leverage.

Tywin would have none of it.

"You know very well what it means, Lord Bolton. I am not here to banter asinine assumptions."

The Leech Lord was emotionless in his reply. "It's hardly an assumption when it is well known who your lady wife is." He craned his neck in what could only be his version of humour and grinned quite fondly. "Did she make the journey as well, my lord?"

Tywin tilted his head slightly to show his annoyance, his voice was not so subtle, "The reasons for me being here have nothing to do with my wife, Lord Bolton, as our correspondence would indicate." The lion narrowed his eyes then, his tone sunk to murderous. "Would you prefer I leave?"

The northern lord knew Lord Tywin Lannister was not speaking on pretense, and if he implicated a bluff the older man would ride away as easily as he arrived. "No my lord, that won't be necessary," Bolton whispered.

"We are shy of a day's ride from your keep, my lord." Tywin resumed, unperturbed by the tension only moments before. "I suggest making camp and arriving in daylight."

Lord Roose nodded in agreement and gave instructions to one of the men he rode out with.

Lord Tywin waited until he was the other man's sole focus before speaking again. "Care to join me, then? When was the last time you had good Arbor wine?"

At the mention of wine Bolton met his eye, thinned his lips to a devious smile, and once more nodded his acquiescence. After a war and a winter just about anything not made of grain or fermented milk was a luxury.

Tywin led his guest into the spacious tent his forethought provided, and it was not long until Lord Bolton addressed his inference a second time, this instance more pointedly. "I understand what your letters said, my lord - you want Stannis. But you have to give credit to my hesitation in that you wed a Stark daughter, the older of the two, and this _is_ the North."

The marriage of the northern girl and the bastard was contract struck and signed well before the Crown removed itself from the ploy of the Freys. And having the Bolton's continue their assumption that the girl was the younger Stark would remain a deliberate advantage. Tywin waited until his squire laid out the wine service and left before intoning sedately, "I wed for no more than an heir. My wife is fertile and obedient, and has done her duty to the _West_."

It was almost a challenge, Lady Bolton had recently delivered a daughter, not the true-born heir Lord Roose desired. His bastard was legitimized when his father was appointed Warden of the North, but it was never a wise man who took their legacy for granted.

Tywin let out a small sigh. "I am here on the command of the Crown - my grandson - and my task is to be rid of the last false king who wishes to usurp him. I have no interest in the North otherwise."

"Not even for the seat of Winterfell?"

"Tell me Lord Bolton, other than a seat and a title, what would be my gain in the North?"

"Land, men, resources."

"The land is fruitless at best, the men are of no numbers to compare to the South, at a distance between them that makes even the simplest of summons at arduous affair, and what resources are you referring to? _Wool_?" The last word he drawled out sardonically. " _I'm_ the one paying _you_ in stores and resources, my lord. You have _ice_ and _misery_ , and you can keep it. As I said, I am here for Stannis, and to have the claim to the Stormlands undisputed."

Lord Roose remained undaunted by the overt insult to his seat and the land that was his home.

Tywin cared nothing if he had been, continuing in his hard neutral tone, "Land of which _your king_ has generously offered acreage and titles for the men of your choosing."

Bolton gave an airy hum, not necessarily of assent. "The Ironborn have a king as well."

Tywin made a bitter sound then said, "Let them choke on their own madness. They are hardly in a position to rebel - they know what happens when they try."

"So do _you_ , my lord," Lord Bolton smirked, " _and_ your entire fleet."

The old lion set his impassive glare on the man standing no more than an arm's length away. "Indeed," he conceded, emotionless. "And I encourage them to _try it again_."

There was silence between the two men, but for neither was it uncomfortable.

"You and your lead men will, of course, be welcomed under my roof for your stay in the North, my lord." Lord Bolton said the words in earnest as he sat at the broad table that took up most of the tent. He spoke as a matter of privilege that was his capacity as the Warden of the North, and if the irony had struck him at all _that_ particular epiphany was kept to himself.

Lord Tywin raised a brow and scoffed imperceptibly at the quiet man before answering, "Thank you, my lord. However, I shall stay with my host, as is my custom."

In offering a cup of wine to the northern lord, Tywin understood the slight nod of acceptance he was given in return - towards both the Arbor gold and the old lion's preferences.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The pomp given to the heritage and naming of castles had always been something of a grating annoyance to Lord Tywin, mainly because his own was the namesake of those stupid enough to be bilked of it. No one in the generations of Lannisters had thought to rename Casterly Rock and, as it stood, the inclination to do so currently would bear more harm than good. Although, as he was introduced and guided through the Dreadfort, he could think of no other name so appropriate.

It was a dark place; even in daylight in the open bailey, the high walls and close-set buildings made it feel as though you were being swallowed into a shadow. As he viewed and walked and surveyed and observed, what he also felt of the place was an overwhelming sense of spectacle. Skeletal accents and fixtures, blackened wood, and tales of what horrors could be found in the depths of the dungeons beneath their feet. It all added to bolster the legend of the family who inhabited it.

In reality it skirted the realm of comedic. Not that the man who hosted him was to be dismissed or taken lightly. Bolton history was a grim as the castle, but there were obvious chinks in that armour as well. Coincidentally, those flaws also ran in a garish vein.

Lady Bolton, _Fat Walda_ , was short, round and, like the castle she dwelled in, fit her moniker succinctly. She had been introduced formally, clutching a babe that was fussy - trying to tear for her freedom from the strangers she was being subjected to. The daughter had the markings of her father, straight black locks and grey eyes shining in a way children's are prone to. Lord Tywin took a fraction of a moment to care about what it would grow into, then dropped the thought without qualm or conscience.

Bolton's wife looked out of place in the North, in the company of her deathly silent husband. She had a look about her that Tywin knew to mean she was struggling to remain quiet. That with every word uttered around her, she was itching to speak, or ask, or vex her way into conversation.

She had kept her tongue well tucked in his presence, and what a mercy that was. It only took the girl walking toward a group of ladies to prompt her excitedly shrill voice into carrying, and cause Tywin to both flinch at the sound and immediately want for his own wife.

Her smile, her touch, her _reticent_ grace...

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Lannister forces have made Barrowtown and White Harbor, my lord." Bolton's man had interrupted an early meeting of Lord Tywin, his commanders, and Lord Roose and the leaders amongst his vassals, but the information was integral to each man. Lannister soldiers had been camped outside Bolton's keep just under a sennight waiting for word from his other forces.

The lion addressed all those assembled, "They will continue their move north toward Winterfell, and garrison themselves prior to their march on the Wolfswood." He looked toward Lord Bolton for affirmation. "From what we know, Stannis has retreated into the deep of it with whatever remains of his southern forces and clan men, correct?"

The lord of the Dreadfort nodded, his simple action was degrees above his normal timbre. "It looks that way, my lord," he offered. "My son has estimated Stannis carries no more than twelve hundred men at his service, those who survived winter."

Tywin internally scoffed at the man's use of _son_. Legitimized or not, natural-borns will always be bastards. Flicking the thought from his mind, he refocused on the task at hand. Anything less would drift his concentration to his own sons.

True-born sons.

 _Heirs_.

Lord Roose was fixated solely on the old lion, quietly taking in the older man's distraction as he continued in his quiet debrief. "It has also been noted that after the attempted raid on Winterfell, the Ironborn, once relegated as captives to Baratheon, are now fighting in support of him."

Tywin took the information in stride. Anything could have happened to change that scenario - winter survival a main reason. Above tactical failure on Stannis' part, the raid on Winterfell saw a heavy loss of Bolton forces, as well as the disappearance of the bastard's own _Stark_ bride - news of which had reached Tywin by other means than the man in front of him. Whatever the reason, the true question was exactly _what_ kind of catalyst would be needed to change the heart of a Greyjoy.

Tywin articulated through his disruptive line of thought, "Numbers alone will see them fall. As long as your... son... is confident in his estimation, Stannis will prove little threat. And we can move forward with the dispersal of the Stormlands."

It was Ser Condon who spoke next, almost urgently. "The Crown will also follow through their commitment to replenish the North..."

Tywin looked sharply at the man of House Cerwyn. If he were his own, the knight would be given an exit and no share of any bounty to serve as a testament of his skepticism. But the larger truth was that every man in that tent, at that table, save those who came from the South, looked hollow. Their pallor was frightening and their eyes were no more than watery orbs sunk within dark pits in their skulls. The heartiest was Lord Bolton, but even he was but a shade of his ghostly self.

"Supply ships and tradesmen have already been staggered in launch, they will be ready once Stannis and his forces have been eliminated."

The knight spoke in unbelievable relief, "Thank you, my lord."

Ignoring him, Tywin carried forward with his means and procedures. "My regiments here are preparing to move toward Winterfell in two days time. They will group and organize with those already there and lead the charge to Stannis." He glanced over the faces at the table and was pleased to see that while they were weary, the Northmen were alert and comprehending. He spoke directly to Lord Bolton. " _We_ will leave in a fortnight, flanking high through the wood with your forces."

Roose quirked his lip and nodded.

Tywin narrowed his eyes, his tone remained dry and serious, "I trust you know the wood better than Stannis and the Ironborn."

Roose looked pointedly at the older man, never once faltering under his glare, offering his soft inflection, "There are hunting trails my family has been using for hundreds of years, my lord, some traverse underground." He quirked his lip again. "No, they'll not see us coming."

"Why not eradicate Stannis before now? Why not use these advantages and rid yourself of him altogether?" Tywin couldn't understand not exploiting an obvious weakness to achieve a goal, but as the quiet lord answered, the old lion knew exactly the type of man with whom he had made his alliance.

"They have been well trapped in the Wolfswood for nigh on three years, my lord. I find it far more entertaining wondering what Stannis has been reduced to eating _this_ time around." Bolton smiled outright. "I hear his family perished in the snows."

Tywin scoffed lightly at his host and moved on all the same. "Your banners are present and accounted for, correct? I wish to have the stores and provisions doled accordingly prior to our leave. I'll not have any of my men left to deliberate petty squabbles for grain and lard."

"They are, my lord." Bolton, for the first time, looked slightly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and began, "We would like to host a feast, Lord Tywin, something of a celebration."

The old lion twitched the corner of his mouth, the rest of him stayed serious. What he was witnessing was a man acting on behalf of his wife. A feast would be expected under any other circumstance; however, true decorum in the instance of famine would state otherwise, in that food stores were nowhere near adequate to support such a thing.

Lord Roose answered his thoughts, "We have been anticipating your arrival, my lord, and while it won't be opulent, a feast would do well to display solidarity with the crown to those who may still be left unsure."

The northern men at the table nodded, muttered, and, as Tywin scrutinized closely, exhibited a feral look of hunger. Pure and simple, these men were starved. He could only assume what sacrifice had been forced upon these men at the expense of his arrival.

Lady Bolton certainly had not suffered. Tywin smiled at that, inside and to himself.

"Of course," he said with disinterest. "If it please, my lord, I would like to contribute from my personal stocks. But, if I may suggest, the feast wait a fortnight - until we are readied to leave.

"There is no need for the bulk of my own men to deplete what stores you have," Tywin continued, "and the small contingent that will remain at my aid will provide whatever clarification of unity you require amongst your banners."

Lord Bolton considered this and nodded after a short while. "The hall is large here, but the reduction of men will help accommodate a higher comfort."

Tywin angled his head to side a tiny amount, pensive. "Hold it outside, my lord. My host will be gone, the space needed to house guests and serve a meal will be more than enough." There was a murmur amongst the northerners. "The cold will not rankle my sensibilities, I assure you," he smirked casually. "Wood is what you have in abundance, yes?"

The chatter slid into happier tones, but it was Lord Roose that looked most pleased. Roguishly so. "If you insist," he whispered with a smile.

It was an effort not to address Bolton's shift to calculation and assessment at securing a casual setting for his Southron guests. In light of the man's celebratory history, Tywin had every reason to be distrustful, but whatever fraction of apprehension stirred in his gut he bit back and pushed forward.

"I do, my lord," the old lion placated. "I also have infernal musicians I will gladly contribute - whom I also insist that you keep... As whatever form of entertainment you fancy."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Precision.

As Tywin watched his men stack and store essential supplies, as had been negotiated, it was a word that ticked and flowed through his mind. It was a word that had described him for decades, and yet it was a word that seemed his current antithesis... in part.

He felt himself two men now. Between the regimented soldier - the leader of men and ruthless warrior, the Hand of the King - and the _other_ \- the man that found life behind closed doors, the one that existed in private moments and peaceful lulls - he was unsure which he preferred. More so, which was to his benefit.

Each was useful and effective in their own way; one circumspect, one resolute.

Each was a deficiency; one of too narrow a focus, one of too broad a view.

His only hope was to live carefully between the two. Something his wife and sons tugged at and nudged when necessary in order to maintain that delicate parity.

 _Sansa_.

Gods, he could not remember the last time he spoke her name. He knew well enough that he thought of it, thought of her; in the slivers of night when his body forced him to sleep. But the thought drove nothing of arousal, not like those first nights rocking at sea where he ached from the recent memory of her skin and breath and heat. This was something else entirely, as though his mind were petrified it would forget. That it would easily misplace her from his thoughts, remove her loveliness from his dreams, replace them with something or someone else...

...Like it did with Joanna.

The ache in him, of Sansa, another ghost, had unmoored and drifted in the days since setting for the North. Like a shadow it progressed to settle north itself, to lodge itself deep in what felt like a hollow in his chest.

He missed her.

Shaking his head as if to muzzle his contemplation, Lord Tywin walked around the camp to better glean progress. There were men building what looked to be a dais and long tables and benches being transferred from within the castle to outside its curtain walls.

This feast was to be large, and his generosity would not go unnoticed.

Further aside from the dining area, were stacks of casks. Hundreds of barrels contained everything craved by the men and women who would be attending: Arbor gold, Dornish reds, plenty of sweet reds on behalf of the Tyrells, and other things. Far too much to drink in one night, but nothing that wouldn't eventually make it into the castle on his behest.

Tywin never enjoyed the gluttony of feasts and celebrations, but he thrived on the fact it was he who would provide edacity for others. More than that, it was the way people acknowledged it to him, of him. It was power. Regardless of where it was based - awe, terror, respect - it was power all the same. And once gained, it was only a matter of maintenance.

As the sky began to darken into evening, Lord Tywin dressed to suit the pageantry expected, even in the wilds of the North. He braced himself for the long observed ceremony aspect of celebration. It was the part of his station in life that he never truly loved or despised.

Endless faces of lords and ladies.

Countless compliments and whispered favours.

Yet here, treachery was nothing so overt.

Beards hid subtle conversation, shaggy hair obscured covert observation, furs covered blades that had been promised to be left behind. There was an ingrained element of suspicion here, a wary politeness that he could not remember ever seeing in his own northern bride. Yet it was an attitude to which he could most certainly dole esteem.

As he sat high on the rough-planked dais, Tywin looked over the men and women and children who had come as their duty required, _as their hunger lead them_ , and he better understood his wife's iron will to survive.

They each had it, these Northerners, a tenacity all their own - bred into their bones. An organic form of kinship and courage, something they displayed proudly.

To a fault.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It will always be the tiniest of things that work to betray a man: a word, a glance... one knuckle of one finger.

The evening progressed. The night was cold, but nothing a heavier layer could not warm to something pleasant. The feast moved past food and drink, tables were moved, and under the stars of the impossibly black northern night, men and women danced and laughed in a carefree manner the old lion was duly unaccustomed.

The frustratingly intolerable musician, the one Lord Tywin restrained himself from indulging his want to run through, was suddenly in a light that made him useful: entertaining those around him.

In the choral midst of what he was sure was some northern dirge Tywin saw it. Saw Lord Roose minutely lift his hand and brush his knuckle in a barely noticeable trail over the back of his lady's hand. In the normality of things, there would be no reason to question the affection a husband may show toward his wife; in the actuality that was the Bolton patriarch, particularly when he was in the company of the Hand of the King, Tywin knew it for what it was. Complacency.

And complacency tends to breed opportunity. But what opportunity could there be for an old lion flanked only by a handful of his own men?

"Bard!" Tywin clipped loudly at the first lull in the music, if only to prolong the gap.

The other musicians dampened their instruments and watched their leader scamp to the raised table that summoned him, waiting for the instruction of a new song. "My lord," the singer gaily chirped with a flourishing bow, "My tongue is yours."

Tywin's hate flared openly at the chit and was made doubly volatile at hearing the sniggering along the head table - lead by the trill giggling of Lady Bolton. "Address me again with pluck, bard, and consider your words truth." His tone was like the summoning of winter, his thunderous glare equally elemental. The warm mirth of the head table froze and shattered at such icy disdain, as did nearly all of the chatter at the tables close to the makeshift dais.

The singer spoke first to break the spell of awful silence. This time there was not a sliver of mischief or coy in him, his eyes were suitably lowered in fear and submission. "I- I am sorry for any offense, Lord Hand." His eyes were still turned down, his voice terribly somber, "Allow me to apologize, my lord, allow me to honour you."

Tywin said nothing, letting the insignificant man flounder in his terror. It was Lady Walda who turned to him and offered calm respite. "He _is_ quite good, my lord."

The bard looked up in the direction of the praise, but it was the furious gaze of the old lion that at once captured his attention.

"Prove it," snarled Lord Tywin.

The singer gulped loudly, bowed without a word and traversed the expanse of the feast area without seeming to place a single step on the ground. The next moments there was heard a shuffle of instruments before a loud cheerful tune carried through the crowd, cascading from the mouths and fingers of the musicians.

Tywin had no idea what the song was, nor did he truly care. What he was riveted to was the seduction of the music and how the crowd fell into the rhythm of it. People drank in time and talked within the cadence of the drum. Women fawned and cajoled normally steadfast men into dancing, with no more than smiles offered like lyrics themselves.

He stood. The people occupying the head table each turned to look, but they were nowhere near his focus. Each step taken with grace and ease placed him squarely in front of a genuinely smiling Lady Walda. "Your assessment of the bard is correct, my lady," he purred at her with a twitch of his mouth, "Take my offer to dance as a confirmation of your opinion."

Holding his hand out to the girl, Tywin flicked his eyes to those of her husband. Lord Bolton would no more deny his request then he would have expected it in the first place. With a nod from her lord husband, Lady Walda took the hand of the Great Lion and followed his lead from the dais to the flat hard-pack ground ahead of it.

Lord Tywin stopped there rather abruptly. A curious act to be sure, but Walda could only assume that Lord Tywin did not want to mingle too deeply in the throngs of merriment. At the same time he turned to her and arranged his hands in a manner that suggested he danced well, and often; he moved to the slower time of a new song that seamlessly blended with the first. She smiled and leaned closer. This was an opportunity that only happened once. Not only was the Great Lion of Casterly Rock engaging in a dance, but he looked happy to do so. His eyes were bright and his demeanor was fairly open - as far as she could tell.

Lady Walda kept her smile as he led, step after step, every one well timed and precious to her. She loved to dance, but her husband never indulged her.

The song once again changed; once again seamless; once again slower than the one prior.

The musicians were only a few bars in when Walda realized she and Lord Tywin had danced themselves far into the shadows, past the torches along the perimeter, outside of the feast area.

Walda giggled, "We've been carried out of the warmth of the crowd, my lord, perhaps-" She was cut off by his hands, large and strong, making a calm journey over her arms, up her neck, to cup each side of her jaw making her swallow hard and her breathing quicken.

His face was shadowy in the dark, but she could see his silhouette bend the distance needed to bring his mouth just above her own. Walda licked her lips - out of habit of course, nothing more than that. Her eyes shuttered when he swayed closer the smallest of fractions, again she told herself it was out of habit. His breath was of wine and spice; her insides fluttered - he tasted Southron. She felt the barest of tickles when his lips moved, but what she did not expect was a statement to fall from them. One that cut like a blade.

"Speak one word and you _die_ , woman."

Her eyes snapped wide, trying to see in the black where they stood; she must have heard wrong, something altogether different than a threat from Lord Lannister. The fingers that once graced her with a gentle touch now dug into her skin.

Tywin could feel her shiver in his hands, but she was trained well enough to obey his command.

With a nod in the direction behind them, Lady Walda gawked as the features of the man who danced her into the darkness were illuminated as though it were daybreak. She then saw the barreling rush of flames, from all sides of the feast, column to the height of the tree tops. The base of those same trees looked to take life; there was movement in waves - a trick of the light perhaps...

Perhaps...

Along with the blazing brightness, Lady Walda heard the brandishing of steel at a volume that was an awful acquaintance. Coupled with _that_ horrible sound were the immediate cries of fear and death and pleading for lives. She began to tremble. A firm hand gripped a hurtful hold of her fur collar as a warm flow of breath caught and swirled in her ear.

" _Seem familiar_?"

That was all the mesmerizing breath said before it moved away from her, and was so much more than just a cruel taunt. She stood, made of shivering stone, the very air she needed to live choking her in her terror. For as much as she led others to believe, Lady Bolton was hardly stupid and her immediate understanding was what led to the inconsolable rush of tears and sobs that throttled through her.

Walda blinked and swiped angrily at the water that was blurring her vision, trying to see. Looking toward the head table she witnessed Ser Condon being cut down mid-stride in defense of his liege.

Her husband.

The man who was paid so handsomely to take her as a bride was standing tall and defiant, fighting against being forcefully handled in an effort to haul him away - all the while searching methodically over the massacre before him.

Looking.

He was looking for her.

Their eyes locked for only a moment, but it was more than a lifetime. Lady Walda saw within that blink the man that only she knew; the man she had grown to care for. And it was in that same heartbeat eternity that her husband acknowledged their fate. She watched his eyes slowly close as his body stopped resisting the Lannister men battering him to move - it was the apology of a man who had never once thought or cared to utter one.

Walda doubled over, keening wails of fear and torment. Her painful realization was a lightning strike: the sounds she made were just like those she heard so long ago. An echoing menace that had followed then found each and every Frey woman and child in the nooks and hollows in which they were hiding the night in which Guest Right was broken.

Her own screams now mirrored those of Lady Catelyn then. A fact that was nothing cathartic, she merely felt empty, but before there could be any further contemplation, a set of rough hands grabbed her arms and pulled her away from Lord Tywin.

Away from the anguished bewailing of so many men and women and, _gods_ , children.

Away from the blood that was already flowing like little rivers from the mayhem.

Away from the scores of crimson-cloaked soldiers butchering those not wearing the same.

Away from the music still being sung and thumped and strummed slowly; a loud, grotesque accompaniment to such a horrific scene.

The music...

Her soul shocked absolutely cold.

 _The Rains of Castamere_.

...

..

.


	22. Spring II

**This chapter contains graphic descriptions of and allusions to violence related to execution and child death, as well as allusions to rape. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.**

...

..

.

Breathing deep the calm of daylight also meant inhaling a fine mist of soot, dust, and blood that always seemed to breeze around and cling to everything after any battle.

Aside from small skirmishes in the West with sea raiders, land marauders, and the Brotherhood, this was the first true assault in which Lord Tywin had been personally involved since the Battle of Blackwater. With it the old lion expected to feel weary, bone tired, and to want for nothing more than sleep, but there was no tiredness of any sort in him. In fact, the only feelings he could truly discern were satisfaction and anticipation.

He stood watching as the bodies of the dead were stripped of finery, weapons, anything of value, before being carted inside the Dreadfort and piled like cordwood in its main hall. Living captives, lower vassal families, lesser knights, and servants were herded into the hall as well. High-born and more influential captives were relegated outside and penned in, confined to a heavily guarded cluster of tents.

Lord Tywin turned away from the bustle of activity, entering his own tent in order to be apprised of progress.

Sitting around the large table were familiar faces, ones that had been around him most of his life. Granted, some of the faces were of sons that mimicked their fathers, but they were familiar all the same. Ser Merlon Crakehall caught his gaze, and in turn spoke first - with a voice, Tywin conceded, more like the knight's mother.

"Winterfell was of no issue, my lord," Ser Merlon informed. "What men were there under Ramsay Bolton fell into our swords willingly, for the most part. The rest, assorted Freys and Northmen, were shadows wielding steel heavier than they were."

"And Lord Manderly?" Tywin asked as he sat at the command of the table.

"His men were waiting at White Harbor, as assured." The knight adjusted this posture a little straighter, continuing, "The man himself held lead of a ramshackle force including Umbers at the Keep, my lord. There wasn't much left for us once we entered... Seemed Lord Manderly was keen to end the lives of any Frey or Bolton man he could lay eyes on."

The old lion lifted a brow at the assessment and spoke seriously, " _Wyman_ Manderly led his men into battle?"

The younger man swallowed loudly and shifted slightly in his seat, his rigid stance faltering now he was under the scrutiny of everyone at the table. Clearing his throat, Ser Merlon thought best how to explain what he saw when he and his men entered the gates of Winterfell. "No, my lord," he began slowly. "Not _leading_ as it were." His eyes were focused at a point on the table. "He was..." swallowing again Merlon lifted his eyes to meet his lord and spoke with an air of wonder, " _taunting_ every man he could. My lord, the fight went to _him_."

There was a flit of chuckling around the assembled men. All except Lord Tywin, who did not waver in his seriousness; whose look pressed into the knight expectantly.

"He wore no armour," the younger Crakehall stated like stone, the jovial sense at the table blunting immediately. "But he swung his blade like a man possessed. No finesse, his girth barely let him pivot, but he stood in one spot and tore through those who thought he was an easy target, my lord."

Tywin nodded his acknowledgement at the tale. Wyman Manderly was the only man he knew that could _gain_ weight during a northern winter. But when the same men who slaughter your son deliver his bones and strong-arm your fealty, a father's fury knows no bounds. Of this, Tywin was sure. And that same surety proved an advantage as it was part of the reason he sought the allegiance of the fat lord in the first place. The other part, of course, was Lord Wyman's fierce loyalty to the Stark bloodline.

"And Bolton's bastard?"

"Tried passing himself off as a kennel man, but it was an Umber who sorted things out for us - Manderly's men vouched. He's been caged in the kennels since, my lord."

"And Stannis?"

Tywin watched as the young knight squirmed again. When he was satisfied with the look of torment, he glared at every single set of eyes at the table; each, in turn, feeling the same heft of discomfort as the first man. He did not need an answer from any of them. He'd already received the message of Stannis Baratheon slipping southwest through the wood to the Ironborn boats hidden in the waterways that severed the Rills and the Stoney Shore.

Lannister forces had Baratheon flanked north and south, beat by rights, but the wood was something unto itself. To hear his men speak, it grew thick and tall only to clear and become boggy as though it had worked against them. Tywin knew the evasion had nothing to do with magical trees and everything to do with failure of command. As he looked at the two chairs purposefully left vacant at the table, he was sure his visual reminder that failure to such a capacity was punished by way of death presented that fact quite vividly. Truth indeed if the sweat-laden faces avoiding eye contact before him were anything to go by.

They were gone, of that he was sure. Stannis Baratheon would recover and regroup well away from the Westeros mainland. Regardless of the fact Lannister forces had destroyed the bulk of Stannis', it did not stop his agitation and disdain, and he would be damned if the rest of his commanding men were not going to live and worry under a cloud of suspect.

Tywin looked casually toward Lord Estren - though his voice was nothing of the sort. "I want the castle stripped of value, anything and everything: documentation, livestock, _everything_. It will be your charge to ensure its delivery to Winterfell."

"Yes, my lord," the man of Wyndhall said as he nodded in affirmation.

"Take seventy men and begin now. Start at the top and work your way down, remove walls and floors if necessary." His mouth twitched. "Leech it dry."

Rising from the great table, the older man offered a small grin of his own before bowing his leave.

Lord Tywin then addressed his council in general, "Set aside hay and pitch and be ready at first light. I'll not wait - you have a full day to secure and complete your tasks." With that he allowed time to his leaders and observed the quiet rumble of conversations dictating and confirming assignments amongst them.

A voice at the far end of the table summoned Tywin's attention, it was the deep grit tone of Flement Brax. He was a younger man who looked twice his age, having led and commanded Lannister forces throughout the War of Five Kings and kept vigil first at the Twins during what turned into the Red Wedding, then again at the siege of Riverrun through the first year of winter. This was a man who enjoyed war and, more so, was good at it.

"Karhold was an easy fold, my lord. The wanted captives have been penned with the rest." Before Tywin could respond, the young commander spoke something sinister - and altogether expected. "The ones confined to the hall, my lord, surely there are some that can serve the men? At least for tonight."

Lord Tywin considered his man in what he was asking. Even by boat there were camp followers; women _and men_ who found work in the mainstay of a moving military environment - washing, cooking, labouring - and yet they earned even more by expanding their trade to include their bodies. But some men have other wants, other preferences, those that are not found in the confines of a transaction...

It took Tywin no more than a heartbeat to reply, "You have your orders, ser, you know your priorities. As long as those are met I do not care how your ranks occupy their time." He leaned forward ever so slightly. "Be warned, it goes to torch at dawn, and any man who feels the need to dip his cock at the same time will left to burn." The old lion turned sinister in his own right. "No exceptions." He floated his gaze around the table. "Let the rest of your men know that those in the hall are for their use, but also let them know the consequence of stupidity."

There was a murmured wash of thanks and acquiescence. When the noise had subsided, Tywin centered on Ser Forley Prester. "I want you to take your regiment, as well as the Umber men you rallied from Last Hearth, and pick a path northward along Last River to the base-mountain plateau and hold there." Taking a drink of his wine, Tywin cleaned his palette, concluding, "You will wait for the mountain clans to emerge, and bring their... _lord_ here."

The brow of Ser Forley dipped in confusion, his face flashing a look like affrontedness. "My lord, we encountered no mountain men in our descent from Last Hearth, not even a scouting party-"

Tywin's fatigue made itself known in that moment. He looked of cool fury and spoke of finality directly at the factious knight. "I need no more than a hunch and the cunning of a simpleton to predict the strategic maneuvering of savages." Narrowing his eyes, he seethed, "Turn north and _wait_."

Ser Forley stared blankly, blinking intermittently - as though he had to transpose his lord's words into pattern in order to understand them.

"Now!" Tywin snapped and the knight jumped to stand, scurrying away with all the grace of a scolded pup.

The old lion took a moment then to compose his thoughts and realign priorities, asking at length, "Where is the fat one's babe?" The question was of no one in particular. However, when only met with silence, he clarified in annoyance, " _Bolton._ Lady _Bolton._ Where is her _fucking whelp_?"

The closest commander to him, a knight from Kayce, spoke without hesitation, "With a nurse and the rest of the captives, my lord. Awaiting transport to Winterfell."

Tywin's momentary ire ebbed, leaving the familiar comfort of indifference. "Take the nurse and babe to perish. If the mother squeals or resists, kill it in her arms." He looked at the man steadily, unmoved and absolute. "I don't care your method, blunt or sharp - it dies. The same with _any_ children in that transport, they will not make the journey."

The man nodded, equally unmoved, as was each man in that tent, and rose to follow the orders he had been given.

As though the knight's exit were a cue, Tywin dismissed the rest of his officers until after the noon hour. Watching his men leave Tywin could almost hear his brother, as if he were standing at his side. _The Northerners were to be left to the discretion of Lady Sansa,_ Kevan's voice chided inside his head. Even when imagined, Tywin's brother did not remember his place, and the notion made the old lion scoff into the emptiness of the large tent.

However, beyond conjured censure stood real truth. The Northerners _were_ to be held for northern justice, but this was a choice he simply had to make, accountability for which he would own willingly. Sansa would not make this decision. The death of those considered innocent would not be a path she would take.

The sharper truth was that Tywin did not want her to.

 _...you are every bit the monster you have_ ever _been._

The Great Lion swallowed his thoughts, hardened his resolve, and lived his lady's honesty.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Roose Bolton's request to meet came only a few hours after the screams of his wife, as well as other men and women within the confinement camp, had finally grown hoarse - then petered to nothing.

Without preamble, those under the age of three-and-ten met the mercy of a blade.

The process was anything but merciful.

As a matter of tactic, the encampment was upturned and swept for children. As a matter of control, those found were herded and swung upon just outside the perimeter of the captives' reach, but well within their sight.

The action was brutal if nothing else, and the event proved something of a slaughter. Although it was found useful in the culling anyone who would have been a nuisance during the march to Winterfell, and proved to quell the fire of defiance living in those left to look on - those preferring judgment from a Stark rather than a Lannister.

When Bolton was announced and brought in front of Lord Tywin, he looked no less than he did the previous evening: stood tall, askew from where the lion sat at the war table, his grey eyes piercing in their indelible fury. Yet his mien was pretext, and it was openly apparent.

Tywin looked on with placid eyes, almost drowsy and bored in their appearance. His were contrary to the prisoner brought before him.

"What is it Bolton?"

" _Lord_ Bolton-"

"You are no such thing," Tywin corrected offhandedly. Refilling his cup with wine, he eyed the man, then sipped without so much as an offer to partake. "If that was the clarification you were seeking, you'll be escorted back to your accommodation."

There was nothing outwardly palpable in the Northerner. Even in light of his own ruin, Roose Bolton could not be swayed to falter, emotionally or otherwise. It was a behaviour so ingrained that it had become the embodiment of his character - something Tywin knew of intimately.

So he pushed.

"Your family is... _comfortable_ , I presume?"

Bolton tilted his head back a minutely, his jaw flexed and worked in fine tremors. "Under what authority does the Crown attack the North, my Lord Hand?" His inflection was soft as ever, his respect remained intact as well.

Tywin raised a brow slightly then took his time to sip once more; as the cup descended, so did the edges of his mouth - frowning in disappointment as one would to an unruly babe. "I am not here at the behest of the Crown, Bolton." His brow raised higher as if to accentuate his continued displeasure. "The Stormlands have been long seized and occupied. Stannis Baratheon is no more a threat than... _you_."

Roose took a moment to absorb the fallout of deceit before narrowing his own eyes and peppering his words with as much bravado as his timbre would allow. "My banners will be called, you've only succeeded in starting another war."

The old lion snorted derisively. "And what bannermen will those be? The ones currently lying dead, the ones that have been captured, or the ones that welcomed me with open arms since the outset?"

He held his cup higher and paused, half toast half smug contemplation. "Your banners are as loyal to you as _you_ were to your own king." Tywin sighed then, spiritless, "It seems the North is quite short on loyalty."

"Leave it to you to hide behind your position, _my Lord Hand_ , for the profit of betrayal."

From any other man, the statement would have been sneered and spit out. From Bolton it sounded like a calm claim of truth. Tywin waved his hand at the wrist and dismissed the notion like addressing a maiden. "Betrayal nothing. Like I said, the Crown is well removed from this endeavour." Tywin felt an element of pity for the man. "My signature is the same regardless of document, yet if it's the only thing to warrant your interest, that only proves your own fault."

"So this _is_ about your wife." This time Bolton did hiss his words, and at volume.

The Great Lion inhaled long, and exhaled in the same manner; his eyes closed for a moment then opened to his natural severity. "Shouldering my wife's debt is my pleasure, Bolton. That is my duty to her not only as her husband, but as a Lannister."

There was no defeat in the Northman, nothing that physically told tale of resignation. "Then what of us, my lord? You say we are marching to Winterfell, but to what end?"

Tywin wore eyes of granite and spoke in tones of steel, "The fate of your life is not for me to determine, but I can only guess it will be forfeit - as well as those of your vassal lords and what remains of your families." The old lion continued speaking as he looked to parchments laying on the table in front of him, " _My_ concern are your lands and coffers - no more."

He was about to order dismissal when Bolton sounded almost a shade of impressed. "Nothing by halves, my lord?"

Tywin flicked his eyes to the man, smirking after a moment. "As you will soon see."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

True to his word, Tywin looked on as the Dreadfort was set ablaze at the first light of dawn. The main hall of the castle was fortified, save one entrance; the perimeter of the room having been packed solid with mounds of hay. It was the soldiers amongst the group left alive in the hall that truly knew their fate. Truly knew Lord Lannister was offering charity. And though some of those same men still had it in them to lunge and fight for the freedom of dying by way of steel, most others simply sat and waited.

The women and children who survived the night, enough to be more than a bleeding husk, could be heard questioning the silent red-cloaks as to the reason feed was being piled around them. Yet once the dry forage was lit, those same voices could be heard coughing in gasps through their recognition, then willingly gulping the smoke to end their misery.

To escape the inevitable flames.

It did not take long for greedy tongues of orange flame to lick around and taste the timber of the structure, coughing out a thick oily fog from cracks in the mortar and broken windows.

Amongst the hundreds of barrels of wine so many Northmen happily tapped and drank from, before it was cut out of them, were stores of pitch. The black sticky fuel that was currently igniting every level of the nightmare castle. The Dreadfort would be razed beyond imagination, and Tywin meant for the proof his scourge to be seen in the sky from the Wall to Winterfell.

 _Nothing by halves_.

It burned for three days before the heat was low enough to afford approaching the stony carcass. There was nothing of wood remaining in the building. Trusses and roofs were smoldering open, nothing more than screaming maws aimed at the clouds; floors and beams holding up levels had collapsed on themselves - some taking walls with them. Even the mortar of the castle's outer walls had turned to sand in some places because of the enormous amount of heat exuded from the furnace that was the main building.

The hall itself _still_ burned. As with oil in a lamp, the fatty flesh of those trapped inside refused to yield quickly. The room burned with a small but continuous flame, and the red glow of the dead climbed the walls of what was left of the hall. It was the only thing one could see in the dark, a lurid living hell that emitted an unnatural heat and offered a smell that should have repelled hunger instead of encouraging it.

There would be new songs scripted to laud this conquest, of that there was no doubt.

"The fire has done most of the work, my lord," Lord Estren began as he stepped to the side of his liege, each of them looking at the orchestrated devastation. "The walls that haven't fallen will only need a push."

Tywin didn't look away from the debris, eyes squinting at the mercy of the stinging ashen air. "Bring _everything_ down," the old lion turned then to his subordinate, a malevolent sneer painting his mouth, "and burn it again."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

When Ser Forley Prester reentered the Lannister camp, he did so with more men then he had set out. As predicted, scouting parties of mountain men had descended out of curiosity. Always weary of southerners, it was only with the encouragement and assurance of the Umber men accompanying Prester that secured an audience with their leader.

The Harclay was large man, both in height and size. He wore a full beard that, like the shaggy hair on his head, was odd mix of golden blond and dark brown. But his eyes were the contrast, such a light blue they were almost white, like the ice atop a frozen lake. He was a young man, no more than five-and-twenty if one were to estimate, but the harshness of life no matter where it was lived always seemed to add a decade. There was a fearlessness about him, in how he casually left his own men to walk with the handful of red-cloaks; in how he was more intrigued than cautious of meeting the man who carved the flaying men from existence.

He was not disappointed.

Lord Lannister was standing as he entered the tent, and though he was nowhere near his bulk, Harclay knew the tall older man was anything but frail. And only a fool would assume otherwise. Harclay took the seat offered him at the large table, along the side, a short distance from where Lord Tywin sat at the head of it.

There was no preamble between them.

"What are your intentions, Lord Harclay?"

"Depends."

Tywin lowered his chin, his eyes clearly conveying annoyance, silently demanding clarification.

Harclay understood, but demanded his own clarification. "What are your intentions with my people captured after attacking the King?"

"I can assure you, my lord, whatever Northmen are left from Stannis' camp will not find prosecution with me."

"And why'd that be?"

"The North has been torn apart for too many years, and it will take just as long for it to be mended. It would not serve to have it ravaged further."

"But you hold Northmen captive here already - burn their castle, kill their babes." There was no malice in his words, they barely held interest, the mountain man simply needed to know why he should be inclined to trust.

"The Boltons and their ilk will answer for the murder of Robb Stark and his banners-"

"No, _south man,_ " the Harclay swished his hand as if to push aside the lion's words,"why do you _care_? _"_

Tywin took but a heartbeat to assess the burly young man who thought to question him. "The Seven Kingdoms are best unified."

Harclay made a show of sniffing the air, taking in the acrid reminder of what the lord in front of him thought of _unification_. "The North survives better on its own," he said.

Tywin arched a brow. "Yet you follow Stannis, a southern king?"

"He made promises, lands and titles and all," Harclay sighed. He had nothing to do with those negotiations, had nothing to do with the unhappy looking king his elders knelt to.

This was something the old lion could understand, this was something tangible. "Did he follow through? What have you received?"

"His war still goes on. We wait till after to be squared." At his own words, a pinch developed in the mountain man's lips, signifying displeasure.

Lord Tywin used it. "Stannis Baratheon's war has ended. You can die waiting for your wandering king, or you can swear to my son when he sits in Winterfell."

The look Harclay wore was one of incredulousness, his scoff bore the same distinction. "A lion instead of a stag? All Southron."

"My lady wife is a _Stark_ , a direwolf." Tywin assessed the reaction of the man in front of him, at the same time he felt a surge, _of something_ , at his own words. The Harclay remained unmoving overall, yet a mysterious light flickered over his countenance; something Lord Tywin immediately exploited. "Lady Sansa, _eldest_ daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, has bore me sons, Lord Harclay. Stark blood will once again be seated in the North," he narrowed his eyes at the chieftain and offered something _no_ man could refuse, "along with Lannister wealth."

The mountain man smiled then, and even _that_ looked wild.

"When you leave today," Tywin instructed, "take a share of spoils collected from Bolton's men - armour and steel." He moved in quickly to secure his newly purchased trust. "I will also offer you food stores and horses."

"Land?" The Harclay eyed the lion shrewdly, his demand made in equal measure, "I'll take this burning demon-castle too."

The minute curve at the corner of Tywin's mouth was an indication of something close to amusement. "As we speak, it is not mine to give, but what I _can_ promise if you pledge fealty is first right to this and more once the North knows peace. There are many keeps that now stand empty."

"How many are mine?" The Harclay pressed, interested at last.

There was neither hesitation nor indecision in Lord Tywin's negotiation. "How many clans can you convince to kneel with you?"

Again there was a bright feral smile beneath the heavy brown beard. " _All_ of them."

Tywin lifted both brows and scoffed lightly, "You do that, and I will personally see that you get your castles, my lord."

"You have mountains in your west-lands, Lord Tywin?" This time, the Harclay's words were rigid and commanding. "You have castles there too?"

Lord Lannister leaned forward to the man, and for every hair-breadth of distance lost his seriousness turned into a more subdued kind of fury. "Yes," he ground out. "There are both in the West and no, there's nothing there for _you_."

When the mountain man angled his head back, squinted his eyes and chuckled, Tywin knew he was the lesser of the two - that Harclay had been given exactly what he wanted.

 _Anger is the first sign of defeat_.

He could have the man killed for the sake of his own satisfaction, for the pleasure of watching him die eating his laughter. But it would serve no purpose other than that. For as much as Lord Tywin was ruthless he was equally premeditated. Producing a heavy parchment, laden with both the Lannister seal and that of the King Tommen, Tywin placed it in front of Harclay with a quill and ink.

"I presume you know how to sign your name, Lord Harclay?" The words implied insult, but the old lion left nothing in his inflection that would support the notion. The mountain clans were brutish, but they were integral in the North, and he would not afford even himself the snobbish want to berate a leader of those people.

It took a handful of moments before the younger man nodded at the contract, as if agreeing with _it_ instead of the lord presenting it. With a surprising finesse, the Harclay's name was scrawled, and with unsurprising skill the same man reached under his heavy fur cloak and produced a blade. The action was met with the sentries edging the inside of the tent drawing their swords, wordlessly waiting for reason or command to use them.

Harclay shook his head and laid the knife, pommel first, toward the older man. "Words are wind, Lord Tywin. I offer a gift proving my loyalty to Stark blood."

The blade was quality, castle forged, that was easy enough to see. The hilt was a bone or a large tooth that had a black patina caused by decades of handling. The weapon was nothing if not fine, and it took no effort for Tywin to acknowledge this.

Leaning back as much as his chair would allow, the old lion unfastened a large leather and crimson-velvet pouch from just behind where his scabbard would normally sit, then reached forward again, setting the bag gently, respectfully, on the table.

Harclay lifted the pouch with interest, hefted it in his hand, admired the intricate tooling of the leather, before pulling open the draw and huffing a small laugh. Of course the west-man would give him gold. More gold than he had ever seen in any one time. Burrowing his hand in the cold pack of coins, listening to the distinct sound the precious metal made when tumbled against itself, Harclay removed a handful and left them beside his own offering.

He made to stand and watched Lord Tywin scrutinize the fistful of currency left behind. "It's never wise to leave a rich man poor," he grinned.

Tywin neither confirmed nor denied the chieftain's prophecy, instead he opted to ignore him. Waving a silent instruction to the guards, he sought to dismiss him altogether.

At the entrance of the large tent the Harclay stopped, turning his attention back to his host, addressing him, "Your wife. She's the one they say is kissed by fire."

It was not a question, and this time the chieftain's coy smile did nothing but ignite suspicion - Tywin's voice was evidence of that. "She's _built_ of it," he vowed unyielding. "You'd do well to remember that, savage."

Harclay was markedly undisturbed by the great lord's words. He simply nodded his head in little movements and spoke without humour, an uncanny echo of the first men themselves. "Then _you're_ the lucky one, lion."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin sat in silence for the remainder of the afternoon, stewing in agitation. There was a melee within him, one that fought and charged at the thought of his fire-built wife. Sansa had now become a noticeable weakness, and it infuriated him.

Her last raven spoke only of political necessities and assurances from the West. Her words were detached and it was like receiving correspondence from himself. A detail that should have pleased him to no end, instead drove his longing - his weakness - and left his will abandoned.

He wanted _her_.

He _wanted_.

Tywin stood and summoned one of the guards standing outside the entrance of his tent and spoke as he turned to the young man who entered. "Send for a girl, make sure she's clean," he said, flinty and emotionless.

"And willing, m'lord?" The young soldier japed, all smiles and good humour. To which, Lord Lannister bore a look of such malevolence, the guard could be heard shaking in his armour.

"I want a girl meeting my specifications," Tywin growled, his tone matching the deadly intensity of his eyes. "I don't care if it's your _sister_ and you have to bind and drag her."

The young man swallowed hard. "Y-Yes m'lord, right away."

Tywin barely flicked his fingers and the guard was gone. And it seemed no time at all before that same insipid boy returned with the requested bounty.

When the young girl was shown into his tent, Tywin waited for the guard to leave before he lifted his eyes to her. She was pretty enough, looked clean... She would serve.

"Do not speak, just nod or shake your head. Do you understand?"

The nervous girl nodded at him, barely making eye contact.

"Do you know how to please a man with your mouth?"

She blinked rapidly for a moment then nodded her head once.

"Good. Strip."

The girl's wide brown eyes darted around for a heartbeat, it was the only interruption prior to her starting to untie and peel away her simple dress. The gaze from her lord was so acute it made her forget how simple lacing worked, but the cruel curl of his lip quickly revived her knowledge.

She stood shaking, her rag of a dress piled around her feet, and he could tell she was stopping herself from covering her teats and cunt with her hands. The girl was underdeveloped, barely out of childhood by the tell of breasts, her mound had hair but it was still fine.

...She would serve.

"Step further into the light and get on your knees." Tywin pointed to a spot in front of him and the girl did as she was told, kneeling near the feet of her liege.

When he came nearer to her, the girl applied what she had learned at an even younger age and reached for the lacing on his breeches. At that exact moment, Lord Tywin struck like a snake, slapping her hands away with such a force that it turned her body with the momentum and caused her fingers to tingle sharply then go numb.

"Put your hands on me again, and I will relieve you of their burden." He glared at the frightened girl and seethed further, " _Do you understand_?"

The girl fought the tears that were creeping up on her and nodded emphatically.

"Sit up taller, _put your hands behind your back_ , and open your mouth." It was an order made almost in anger.

Watching the girl follow his instructions, Tywin unlaced his breeches himself, pulled out his cock and began stroking it over her face. When her mouth was open enough for his liking he rested the tip on her tongue and addressed her in warning, "I'll not feel your teeth, will I?"

Her attention flicked momentarily to the shining blade sitting amongst the parchment on the large table before shaking her head a tiny amount, careful to keep his cock on her tongue.

"Suck," he commanded.

The old lion closed his eyes at the feel of her mouth closing over him. In his mind when he looked down to his cock, the vision also projected wild waves of auburn that made the habit of tickling the sides of his thighs, pale freckled shoulders that swayed in cadence to his shuddering moans, and the delicate bow of pink lips accommodating his length.

He huffed a groan involuntarily at such lovely debauchery.

Tywin's memory leapt to a time early in their marriage when he had taught Sansa this singular pleasure - at which a wave of excitement flooded his prick, prompting the mouth there to take him deeper, to suck harder. His wife had so wanted to please him, thoroughly embarrassed as she was, and at first it worked to his advantage as she would gag and choke and apologize on the verge of tears. But for every sigh that dripped off his lips and every twitch she felt under her hands or on her tongue, she became confident, bolder, and before long it was an act he feared was shattering his restraint.

Until Sansa would look at him.

She would look up directly at him with eyes that he could always read. No pretense, no lies, just honesty, and it would remove all doubt from him. It was as if she could sense _that_ in him as well, because it was only after he was past his own hesitations that she would smile. _Gods..._ Her lips would curl up and around his girth, so filthy, so beautiful, and all she wanted to do was suck his cock. But her smile... Her smile told him she was seeking and finding her own gratification from taking him to such heights. At that he would gently fist her tresses and watch her wriggle and churn in joy and concentration, until he spent. _Oh_ _fuck_ , she would lap his seed like it was water found in the great sands of Dorne.

Tywin's hand reached forward and fisted into the head full of hair at his groin...

His error.

It felt different.

 _She_ felt different.

She _was_ different.

He saw Sansa behind his closed eyes again, this time without the context of his pleasure, and she smiled all the same. The smile that told him he was wanted, that he was adored. The exact smile his sons offered when they themselves were happy.

Every fraction of arousal he exhibited moments before retracted to a void, replaced by... _guilt_? Whatever it was, it bloomed into something like a rage that caused him to back away from the naked child in front of him. There was a hint of terror in her eyes and it only added to his already unsteady fortitude. He stared at her, his limp, wet cock hanging just outside his breeches; stared at the girl kneeling, bared, her mouth opened slightly, her lips and chin slick with proof of her trade.

Tywin could not stand to see her anymore and flicked his eyes to the disarray of the table he was leaning on.

"Another p-part of m'body might p-please, m'lord," the girl whispered, her voice as nervous as the rest of her.

Tywin looked at her pointedly, addressing her with brutal honestly, "You have nothing I _desire_ , whore. And I told you not to speak." He tucked his cock away and leaned down to the still-kneeling girl. "Stick out your tongue, whore."

The girl look of the girl was utter panic, her eyes darting to his hand where it rested on the table just next to the dagger. She whimpered, too fearful to comply.

He curled his lip and sneered at her, "Stick it out yourself, or I will do it _for you_."

Tears were pouring down her cheeks, she was barely holding back her sobs, but he watched as her tongue emerged slowly. When she heard metal scraping across the table top she closed her eyes, and when she felt its coldness on her tongue, she whined out her despair even harder. There was no pain, but she figured that would come eventually, the heaviness of the metal just stayed on her tongue and she prayed to The Seven that Lord Tywin would end her misery sooner rather than later.

Instead, she felt his fingers under her chin, applying pressure to close her mouth. She did so quickly, pulling her tongue back in so as not to bite it, but startled as she determined the cold, dreadful weight remained upon it. Snapping her leaking eyes open, all she saw was Lord Tywin staring down at her, hatred still in his look, a snarl still on his lips.

"Is your tongue worth three dragons?" Frightfully quiet words, so full of venom.

With the coins on her tongue, the girl's only choice was to nod.

" _Get out_."

The girl moved quickly to stand, gathering her clothing; however, when she started to dress, Lord Tywin advanced on her in one stride, peerlessly livid. He grabbed her hair viciously and kept walking to the entrance of his tent, pushing his naked catch ahead of him. Not speaking a word, his grip tearing her scalp and causing the young girl to keen and scream around the gold behind her teeth, Tywin used the hold he had on the girl's hair to pitch her forcefully through a near-hidden side flap of his tent. The startle-turned-mocking of the guards stationed and passing just without confirmed his aim was true.

He cared nothing of them, or her.

 _Her_.

The only _her_ his mind could focus on was the only one that mattered, and she was nowhere near.

Not yet. Though, she was away and getting closer.

Tywin returned to his seat at the head of the large table. Out of breath and highly agitated, he had to concentrate in order to regain his composure. Bringing his right hand up from his side, resting it in the center of his chest, cushioned in the plush of his doublet, above his heart - over the roar - he closed his eyes and thought of his wife.

His wife made of fire, not gold.

Digging fingertips into fabric, he felt a sense of calm instantly roll through him that deepened his breathing just as fast, but couldn't cure the ache where his palm lay.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The march from the Dreadfort to Winterfell was made all the more dangerous by sudden heavy snowfall. The cold wet hazard that befell the Lannister troop and their convoy as they picked their way along passages through the Lonely Hills was something unknown in the South, and would be an experience that could only be related amongst those who witnessed it.

With so many men and women traveling by foot, and whipping flurries coupled with stretches of knee-deep mud, the trek was made treacherously slow, and deadly. There _were_ casualties amongst the prisoners, but no one of immediate importance - a second son here, a distant cousin there. Each were left where they fell, feeding the other animals trailing such a cavalcade of misery.

But even the excruciating journey could not compare to what Lord Tywin found at Winterfell.

In the moons since his forces arrived, and behind them tradesmen, it looked as though no work had been accomplished. Winterfell was little more than mismatched workmanship: unskilled roofing overtop impeccable foundations, flimsy gates of trash-wood manhandled into place sporadically lined the formidable inner and outer granite walls. The moat between those walls had been left to rot - and even with the passage of years and the freeze of typical weather, the stink of putrid flesh sullied the air up into the guard towers.

Buildings were scorched, walls had collapsed, most rooms were uninhabitable, yet Tywin could not help but see what the castle could be, _would be_ , in the moons to come. His wife would ensure it, and he would do whatever it took to allow her that feat.

What he planned as a cursory inspection of the castle turned into hours of detailed investigation and casual adventure. The Great Lion had never seen Winterfell in all his years. In his youth, he had sailed as far north as Bear Island, but had never ventured onto mainland higher than the Fingers. His concerns at the time were solely of the South and the West; his father the cause of the latter, Aerys eventually the excuse for the former. The North was little more than a jape, existing for the amusement of those far more sophisticated - intellectually and otherwise.

Yet it was the North who proved the catalyst of ending a dynasty reign and changing the course of history.

Not _the North_ , he corrected, a _northern_ _girl_.

 _His_ northern girl was more than a fortnight of travel away from landfall, if the sea fared well. He refused to let her journey the King's Road - not with her name, not through the Riverlands, not with her mother... She would come by way of boat, by way of White Harbor, still allowing for necessary exposure to the land and its people, just on a more limited scale.

These were his thoughts as he wandered the Great Keep, as he stood in one of the only rooms not damaged by fire or squatters. It was a guest suite, and while he had an inclination to ready the lord's chambers for his wife's arrival he was not so much a fool to think she would sleep well, if at all, in that particular set of rooms.

Though she would more than likely want to consider them for a more permanent residence...

He'd let Sansa make that choice when the time came.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The burgeoning light of morning saw Tywin walking into the expansive kennels at the west end of Winterfell's bailey. It was an area currently functioning as a gaol for the overflow from the taxed dungeons, and held captive within was the reason he had been summoned from sleep.

Sword drawn forth and presented just before reaching the low sloped building, Tywin's irritation since he was awoken played just as sharp. "What kind of prisoner matter sees my own gaoler beyond purpose?" The words were spoken to the Lannister man with as much cold as the morning frost defined the air used to create them.

"It's the bastard, m'lord," the man said, trying to salvage the reasons for calling his lord. "He'll not give up the toothless cripple. Fucks 'im for all to see, then says the thing's highborn."

Tywin flicked his annoyed glare toward the two figures penned up behind the makeshift bars. Bolton's bastard had a white haired gimp kowtowing at his feet and was stroking the thing as though it were a dog.

Lord Tywin returned his attention to the gaoler, sneering in disgust, "The bastard was to be held solitary, why is this man even in there? Where did he come from?"

"Seems he came in with the flow of stragglers from Stannis' camp, m'lord." The man nervously cleared his throat. "He'd not harm anyone, the cripple's barely got fingers left. Just found him in there last night and he's not left, even to threats. We were told not to open the bastard's cage for nothing, m'lord." The man was almost panting out his last words.

Looking back to the figures inside the cage, Tywin spoke softly to the man at heel to his master, "Come here, ser."

Ramsay bellowed in defiance, "He's a _lord_!"

Without missing a beat, the lion purred, "Come here, my lord."

Snow kneed the stooped man in the side to prompt compliance of Lord Lannister's request, the white-haired man crawled the distance blind and obligingly to the front of the cage. Not once did he lift his head to look at or acknowledge his new liege, and as he approached the gate of the enclosure, Lord Tywin instructed the gaoler to open it. Only the did the cripple turn his head to his other master, waiting for Snow to nod before crawling out.

The gate was being secured as Tywin addressed the thing made of rancid stink and shivering bones. "What is your name, my lord?"

The man did not look to his master for permission, or even an answer, but stuttered out a voice that sounded of absolute suffering, " _Reek..._ It rhymes wi-"

The madman's introduction was ended by the unfaltering swing of a heavy golden-hued blade.

For endless moments, every set of eyes were mesmerized by the rolling tumble of white hair, followed by the belching waves of thick, dark blood purging from where that white hair once rested.

The spell was broken when Lord Tywin clipped with an air of smugness at his remaining captive, "A lord no more."

Just as quickly, he spoke to two of the guards flanking him. "Take this imbecile," pointing his gore laden sword at the now begging and apologetic turnkey, "to the stocks and rouse his commander." A quick nod to punctuate the command and the guards seized the man, dragging him away.

At the same time the bastard flung himself at the entrance of the cage, frothing in his fury. "Do you _know_ who that was?!" It was said with a conviction indicating Tywin had indeed removed an advantage from the man.

"I don't care who you fuck," he said in a tone that was everything save interested.

The bastard was livid, every muscle set to shiver, but his eyes were calm. It was a combination that signified the ability to act and think independently, that he was a well practiced liar.

A mummer...

But it was an attempt to bait that sprang from younger man's mouth instead, and while it was assurance of Snow's lack of suitable faculties, Tywin found it entertaining all the same.

"Of course you don't care, my lord. Who are _you_ to judge?" the bastard sneered. "Tell me, do you make Lady Lannister sheer her cunt so she feels the same as the first time you stuck your cock in her?"

... _and_ a fool.

The old lion gave the young man nothing, no words, no indication of offense, simply turned on his heel and made to leave, the headless carnage left to finish dying in his wake.

"My Reek was a masterpiece!" Snow keened, a shriek that told of his unraveling.

Tywin smiled inwardly at the easy victory then turned, addressing the bastard dismissively, "Breaking a broken man is hardly an accomplishment." Tywin suddenly realized that the idiot grinning, smug as you please, actually believed his own words. "Do you think your depravity is something special, bastard?" Tywin leaned forward with a tone that pierced the air, one that ensured a listener's undivided attention. "Had you ever heard of the Mountain that Rides?"

The ugly young man curled his lip, but nodded his agreement regardless. Tywin continued, "You are cruel, to be sure, but you have nothing that doesn't live in every man. The want to hurt. Even in the sport of torture there is always a purpose - a greater reason as to why." Tywin tilted his head slightly, his features remained impassive. "Ser Gregor, on the other hand, had no purpose whatsoever. He would enter a town looking for drink and for no other reason than immediate want, kill his way into a family home, split a wife open, and fuck a babe still corded to its mother." The lion inclined his head, looking bored, and finished, " _Then_ find his drink." Raising a brow a fraction, he emphasized his point. "Now _he_ was a masterpiece of depravity. _He_ was special."

The old lion offered the man a look of such contrived pity. "No, you're just a maiden in this _real_ world of monsters."

Turning his query to the newly arrived commanding officer flanking the gate of the cell, Tywin felt inspired. "Clegane's men - what of the ones remaining?"

The older man answered readily, as though he had been waiting for just that question. "They're over a dozen in total. Traveling on the skirt of the host, my lord." The commander hesitated for only a heartbeat. "We can't have them amongst the rest of the men - they're not... compatible, my lord."

Tywin knew full well that any man assigned to Gregor Clegane was doomed to turn into an unmentionable threat, so care was always made to filter those predisposed to that sort of behaviour into the Mountain's camp. Now leaderless, the band of men were simply tolerated and used as a weapon of fear and torment.

"Fetch them."

The officer nodded, relieved there was no retribution for his gaoler's idiocy, and made to leave.

Lord Tywin then took a moment to contemplate the prisoner in front of him before turning to a young guard at his side. "Find a frock amongst the Bolton belongings, something large - start with those of Lady Frey; something pink."

 _How appropriate_.

Ramsey spat at Tywin as he barked, "I'll wear a gown. You'll not humiliate me, old man."

Tywin cocked a brow, but his tone remained dry and serious. "You misunderstand Snow, _gifts_ should always be wrapped." At his words, and with a task, the guard set off to find the requested object.

The old lion leaned on the sturdy wooden slat of an adjacent stall, wiping his blade of carnage, waiting idly for his men to return, soundly ignoring the half-bred fuckwit trying to rouse his attention. He smirked at the thought of Bolton's legacy, then grinned outright at the obvious end of it.

It was the young guard, quested like a handmaiden, who returned first - gown in hand.

Tywin flicked his gaze at Snow. "Remove your clothes." It was an open invitation for rebellion, but it was exactly what he expected of the younger man.

"And if I refuse?" Snow _now_ held the haughty timber of a proper high-born.

Lord Lannister moved not one fraction. Inflected his voice not one fraction. "The only reason you would be unable to oblige would be for lack of use of your arms." Finished polishing his blade, Tywin rested the tip just inside the scabbard, set his foot on the slumped corpse of the bastard's dead pet, and spoke further, "Continue dallying, and you will be assisted in your ailment."

There was no fear in the bastard, but then true madness never allotted that kind of room. What it _did_ allow for was calculation. And as futile as it might be, letting the young man assume an advantage by changing his role and environment at least persuaded compliance...

A rank stench of filth assaulted the old lion before he heard the footfalls of the men it belonged to. For a heartbeat he thought to blame the moat a curtain wall away, but theirs was a specific rot that identified Clegane's men without sight of them. As though on cue, those same men filed into the kennel, closing in on their liege, waiting for the orders they lived for.

Tywin spoke toward the men as his fingers flicked to the angry man in a gaudy dress, he spoke quickly and concisely so as not to have to endure any more time with his own pets than he had to. "She may not be comely, gentlemen, but she's yours for a fortnight."

No sooner had the gaoler swung open the gate then, without hesitation, the men climbed in with Ramsay. They inspected him like chattel: bending him over so fingers could jab cursory prods, pulling his lips back to devise how to best remove teeth. The bastard tried to speak with them, appease to the group on their level, but was struck for his efforts, lashed with a blade until he learned to be silent.

There were no words of approval or thanks, or any kind of propriety to their lord for their gift. What there _was_ was a collective noise of salacious gibberish and wet groans from the group of men... and one skittish boy. A youth no older than four-and-ten, who looked just as deplorable as the rest of them.

Tywin's face could not help but twist mildly at the cringe of realization that the boy amongst them was more apt a child they snatched along the way. A child they used as nothing more than a camp follower - a rag for their degeneracy. Yet in this scenario the boy seemed to have leverage, a higher status than the pink-frocked man being held down, and the men seemed happy to let him lead.

The youth looked at the bastard with wild eyes, like Snow was the prettiest wench this side of the Neck. But the boy's words were brutal, and with very little perception one was told the tale of his own horrible existence. "Our blades are sharp too, princess. We'll carve new holes to get into ya. One's just as tight and warm as another."

Tywin took that cue and addressed the motley assortment of miscreants as a whole, "I want him alive. Broken if you must, but alive all the same. If he escapes or dies, each and every one of you will pay the toll."

A scab-infested man, the leader if Tywin were a betting man, was who grinned an answer on behalf of his brothers, "Yes, m'lord."

And it was with dubious assurance that Lord Tywin left his men to their liberty.

The old lion had greater considerations at hand.

...And _she_ was getting closer.

...

..

.


	23. Spring III

...

..

.

The last time Tywin Lannister saw his wife was mere hours prior, while he was dreaming.

The last time Tywin Lannister saw his wife _astride a horse_ was over a year ago at Casterly Rock. An event which had seen him frustrated and cursing a litany of ugly, toothless threats at the same walking away from both her and her mount.

Sansa wanted to learn how to better ride, she'd said. Something she had detested blatantly before that time, but it was also something she saw as a credible strategy for her reintroduction to the North. The reasoning played absolutely sound; however, Tywin himself held nowhere near enough patience to actually teach her. Looking at her now, though, it seemed rather obvious someone did, and it was to his greatest satisfaction that his wife tended toward ignoring his more scathing criticisms, opting instead, almost with an air of defiance, to conquer tasks on her own terms.

Spite to that degree was certainly useful, Tywin mused; Lady Sansa looked incredibly striking as she approached - on a hand-selected mare bred from the finest stock, gifted from the heir to Highgarden. The horse was of a dark fiery amber colour that seemed to shimmer with every step; certainly one of the more serene horses he'd encountered, showing an outwardly docile demeanour. Though she could be a feisty bitch as well if commanded, as quick and bold as any steed Tywin had ever seen. There wasn't much of a quandary when the cripple Tyrell presented his selection. The moment Tywin spied the horse among the others in the paddock he knew the mare and his lady wife were as well suited as any pair.

 _Jonquil_.

Tywin could not suppress the derisive snort lurching from him at the recollection. An appalling name for such a fine creature, but his wife had merely looked at him all dewy-eyed, with a kind of innocence that only crept out of her in rare moments, and he found himself thwarted, unable to speak a bloody word against the obscenity. But to look at her now - his eyes squinting slightly due to the light just behind her on the horizon - it didn't matter the name of the gods-damned horse, because his wife's assumption proved absolutely correct: The very sight of her riding stoic and proud through the wintertown was a display both breathtaking and hopeful for every soul lined along the road leading to the King's Gate.

She rode tall, perfectly postured, and evenly flanked on either side by her four fiercely protective sentries, closely followed by another two hundred soldiers. Behind them marched a veritable consortium of tradespeople, crofters, and her own support. Each scattered amongst an extensive envoy bearing food and supplies.

 _Until you lead an army there, girl..._

Seven words rattled a trail through the old lion, from collar to boot, and he resolved himself to the fact that he had best eat them, for that was exactly what she had done.

There were no red cloaks among Sansa's men, only the rich grey that had once draped around her neck and cradled atop her breasts. Lady Sansa wore a cloak of the same colour, though its edges were trimmed with a thick edge made of the deepest crimson. On the back of that elegant cape lived a startling contrast; the likes of which exacted gasps and mutters throughout the gathered townsfolk.

Northern men and women who came to see for true, believe for true, their long lost Stark had returned to them, greeted Sansa with reverent awe and murmurs of the Lady of Winterfell reborn, of new eras and blessings of tree gods... until the procession passed fully. Only then did the reality hit those waiting for a miracle. Adorning the sweeping length of Lady Sansa's cloak was an emblazoned lion, fierce and rampant, glittering and shifting even in the overcast weather the North called daylight. Each thread of fine spun gold moved as though it were alive.

In the time that Lord Tywin had ousted Bolton, the North looked past the legendary lion from the South and focused solely on the promise of a Stark. When that woman arrived in grey and glory it was a hope yet again ignited. Nevertheless, as what tends to bloom from hopes and promises and dreams and wishes, it did nothing more than remove vision and blind them to the truth.

They got their Stark. They also got a Lannister.

This would be the delicate balance, the test of faith for his wife from her people. It was also the reason Lord Tywin was leaving as soon as she was established.

One more nail in their delicate structure.

Another saw Sansa arriving to Winterfell, the castle of her ancestors, without its heir. Rykar remaining behind had been a deliberate plan of his making from the beginning, and a vicious battle between them for the duration of a sennight. Leaving their sons in the West under the care of his sister was a necessity, and Tywin knew that over time his wife would see it as such. The boys were still very young and the North was not yet solidified, and he simply refused to risk the focus of his wife's attention anywhere than on the task at hand.

His wife concealed her hurt very carefully, although the manner in which it carried in her eyes reflected the certainly of that very thing. Tywin could see her pain clearly, but the prospect didn't concern him in the least. Because along with the pain shining in the depth of her blue eyes there swirled a tenacious determination, an unbending resolve to claim this, her home, in the name of her son.

A fluttering surge of selfish delight rallied in center of Tywin's chest. There was no question of her ability to rule and delegate, he knew. Sansa had shadowed him for nigh on three moons at Casterly Rock before he stepped away after escorting her to the reception hall, leaving her to fend for herself - a tactic much much the same as he had used in the company of lords and emissaries in King's Landing. However, as was policy at the Rock, she would not be alone in Winterfell either. Sansa would be left in the North with the benefit of good counsel, from more than one side, even though Tywin's ego implied his own tutelage was more than sufficient to see her succeed alone.

Lord Manderly obliged to stay until a token of order was established, and serve doubly as a presence trusted by other northern lords. His pledge to Sansa was a reiteration of devotion to her family. The second man in her counsel she had selected herself, though he had supported her choice as though it were his own.

Ser Brynden Tully rode second in formation behind Lady Sansa and was her only preference of advisor. She had never met her great uncle prior, but when she brought her selection to her husband, her reasoning had been flawless. The Blackfish was not only a loyal blood-relation and renowned for governing in his own right, he had also established himself as a man with an uncanny ability to gain and maintain the respect of anyone who crossed his path. He possessed a natural influence, and his turns of leadership at the Vale and Riverrun were nothing if not exceptional. That he had no ties to hold him now that his nephew had been reinstated as Lord Paramount of the Trident worked to Tywin's advantage.

Tully's devotion to his wife was proportionately immediate and fascinating, to say the least. The look of abject reverence the first time the Blackfish met Sansa was telling. What the older knight would not admit in words was as obvious from his every look and action: Sansa was Catelyn Tully incarnate. She lived as a sort of redemption for the man, whose eyes were ever-steeped in regret and guilt for what he had escaped at the Twins.

Something so raw was nothing if not an asset to the old lion, and while Sansa would never think to hone that kind of leverage from her great uncle, it was done without so much as a second thought on Tywin's part. He had told the Blackfish that Sansa's very life was in his hands, that he was entrusted with her care, that the knight would meet his own death if he failed the task of bringing her north to him unmarred.

" _Family. Duty. Honour._ " Was Ser Brynden's only reply.

Normal course would be to immediately dismiss any man with gall enough to sling house words like a bloody oath, to mock their insipid try for sentimentality with the disdain it deserved, but the Blackfish was no fool, nor was he some unseasoned boy fresh-weaned from the teat with nothing to his spirit save the shine of his own conceit. The old lion instead devoured that pledge set so passionately at his feet, subsisting on that gnaw of hope through each step of his own journey northward.

With every strategy devised and implemented on behalf of his wife, he consumed that very vow. All at once it filled his belly and made him hollow. Until Sansa had indeed been delivered to him a pillar of wild northern glory riding a poorly-titled horse.

His wife was safe.

Only now could he be sated.

And yet he wasn't.

There was something out of kilter, and his guts turned to knots at the sense of unfamiliarity.

Watching her, Tywin could help but feel that something had changed. He considered his wife's formality when she progressed through the King's Gate into Winterfell's considerable bailey. Trotting slowly passed the scores of men and women lining her path and waiting for their chance to bow a respectful greeting, Sansa sat tall in the saddle looking powerful, her features thick in seriousness. At that he found himself standing straighter in a spontaneous shock of pride. _Good_ , his thoughts confirmed, _this is hardly a game._ However, there was a small part of him that wanted to see in her a sliver of joy, observe a taste of something good she may have remembered echo on her face, but her placid gaze gave him nothing. She was his Sansa, this fact was undeniable, yet it felt as though they'd been separated by decades... It was with a sudden perverse pang Tywin realized the shift.

Sansa looked older to him, and was every bit a woman.

More than that, more than anything, Tywin wanted to fuck his northern bride. An urge of the most base and vulgar kind, but it was the truth of the matter.

The old lion stood planted, just as struck as everyone else from White Harbor to Winterfell. This woman radiated. Her porcelain pallor that had clashed so ridiculously with the norm of the South, nearly glittered when it was set against the hazy grey of the northern climate. She was a jewel here, and the old lion could not help but stagger slightly at exactly what that truth meant.

He observed her halt well within the bailey and swallowed back the want to push away the horsemen who were assisting her dismount, to draw his blade and sever the hands that thought to touch what was his.

 _Jealousy_. Gods.

It was an intense fire in his belly that took everything in him to remain still, but the weight of his restraint played on his face making him look disappointed.

It was a fair trade.

She walked toward him then with the elegant grace he feared he had forgotten, and though she took her time as decorum dictated - steps at an even pace designated for regency - he could see her fight her own want to simply run. And oh, how it pleased him. It ate the burn of envy and replaced it with the cool wash of contentment. And though his face was stern, his wife knew exactly where to find the confirmation she was looking for.

Sansa greeted her husband stiffly, as was expected, and watched as his eyes drifted slowly to her lips.

Focusing on how they moved, how she slid her tongue over the bottom one as she spoke his title and his name, how that same lip was pulled back and scrapped under her teeth at the end of her greeting, found Tywin uncomfortably hard in his unforgiving armour.

He struggled to remember words and how to make his mouth work. Abandoning speech altogether, Tywin simply nodded and held out his arm. Sansa smiled demurely, a feature to which only he was privileged, and his free hand fisted to fight the reflex to find her face, her neck, her skin, in order to touch.

The tips of her fingers curled past the edge of his partial vambrace and pressed into the mail underneath. It was her silent instruction for him to move; to walk and carry on with the business of themselves and Winterfell, and of the North. It was also a promise of things to come, and a subtle message letting him know she felt the same way he did.

They walked, hand on arm, as a pair; so striking in their refinement, it caused those around them to step away and look on in veneration.

Tywin ushered his wife into Winterfell's Great Hall, and though she looked around in obvious pleasure, appreciating the work that had been done prior to her arrival, he could not stay to enjoy her excitement - to enjoy her. He had obligations elsewhere and an army to gather and coordinate.

"I will leave you in the capable hands of Lord Manderly, my lady."

Sansa didn't even look at him as she said, "Of course, my lord."

And if Tywin were honest - which he was to himself, always - her detachment was what he preferred then and there. She kept walking when he had stopped, and he could not help but simply watch her a moment before forcing his feet to pivot and his legs to stride away.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lord Manderly was sat behind one of the raised tables, parchments and quills strewn about. The scene was completely out of place for a dining hall, using the table as a makeshift desk - quills and loose parchment strewn about and rows of reams stretching the length of it - but absolutely appropriate at the same time judging by the amount of documentation it held.

The large man grinned at her as she approached, something knowing, and Sansa tucked that look away with how he had intently watched she and Tywin enter the vast chamber to begin with. There was nothing subtle with this man, he was as heavy in his mannerisms as he was in his physical stature.

"My lady," he greeted, but made no effort to stand as was customary.

Sansa did not return Lord Manderly's greeting or levity. She remained detached, but approachable in her demeanour - she would not be the wife of Tywin Lannister if she don't know better than to grant immediate confidence in a man who willingly admits duplicity. On the other hand, the man before her was also a man from her memories, from memories of her father, and that type of knowing made it difficult to maintain the icy rift needed to keep an open mind.

"The Bolton captives," Lord Manderly started, easily reading the young woman as she seated herself in the chair across from him, and dispensed with any idle banter he'd initially planned. "Have you decided their judgment, my lady?"

Lady Sansa cast a critical eye on the large man, picking apart what he was truly asking. "I have, my lord," she offered flatly.

Manderly's smile crept wide on his face. It was usually a disarmament, but Sansa retained her steely will, immune to his practiced charm. Regardless, he kept up pleasantries and allowed it to colour his words. "There are many men, myself included, that will gladly volunteer to the task of execution on your behalf, Lady Sansa."

"That will be unnecessary, Lord Manderly."

 _Frigid_. That's what he would call Lady Sansa's manner. _No_ , he amended, wrong direction, he would call it _Southron_.

Ser Brynden interrupted whatever assessment was ticking in Lord Manderly, walking to his charge with an armful of parchments and sitting directly beside her. It was _he_ who was overtly amiable, _he_ who had offered a smile in return, just as easy and calculating as Manderly's own. In that precise moment, Wyman knew exactly to whom he would have to prove himself in order to earn the trust of Eddard Stark's daughter.

The Blackfish littered the table top with his own documents and set to prioritizing. He handed the scroll pertaining to the name and details of captives off to Lady Sansa and watched, not overly surprised as she placed it to the side. He knew of her intent, he also knew this was not the time to discuss it.

The communication Sansa set aside may well have been scripted in stone for the gravity it held. She had hefted that onus the very moment it had laid on her palms.

Once they had landed in White Harbor, Sansa had received the register of Bolton captives. It was a long list of some one hundred and fifty names; a thoroughly detailed report. And for all the husbands, wives, and youths - it was curiously lacking any children. Even Lord Bolton's daughter was missing from the roster. A child she confidently knew to exist, a child she resolved to ward with Lord Manderly. But as she stared at the diminished index, Sansa _knew_ their fate. Just by looking at a scroll of parchment her heart sunk, forged of iron, excruciating and cumbersome inside her chest.

She _knew_ what Tywin had done, and it made her physically ill for the greater part of her stay at the port keep.

But that was who Tywin Lannister was, had always been, and she had become too contented with the man he became in her presence. Sansa never thought to change him - what an absurd notion considering her circumstance. Even under favourable odds it would be no more than a futile effort. However, it had been a time since she had been cut open by the double edge of truth, and it made the impact of such a deed much more brutal.

She had been welcomed to the North and to White Harbor with a flourish of pomp reserved for royalty. There was not one face amongst the men and women, commons and lords alike, that did not show happiness. That did not wordlessly express relief and joy. And to that, Sansa wanted to provide that succor for the people so ravaged by loss and war and winter. She had waited for the moment when she could begin to mend their lives on behalf of their fallen king... of their fallen lord... but she could not reconcile her desire to mend with the fact her husband had already torn out a bloody swatch - starting with little children.

Sansa herself was a now a mother, and this savagery struck her far stronger than she expected. It was in the quiet ticks of time, the ones away from those she assured her promises to, that the heft bent the steel she had been made of for quite some time.

It had been her great uncle who saw her distress, intuitively knew she needed calm and reassurance. So when he sat with her on a bench overlooking the rough northern waves, not speaking a word, just being of comfort, Sansa had no recourse other than handing him the parchment in her fingers and asking her dismal question.

"What do you think happened to them?"

Her tone was leveled. It would have been one that surprised Ser Brynden if he had not spent the past handful of moons with her at Casterly Rock, watching this young woman rule with a strength and finesse he had not seen in anyone so young - not even her mother when she became de facto Lady of Riverrun.

"I suspect they're in the ground," he'd said, his eyes soft and sincere.

She had been adamant that Ser Brynden remain honest with her, like her husband, but the difference was overwhelming. Where Tywin spoke of truths like they were blunt objects, battering with information to provoke comprehension, the Blackfish gave those same truths like a drink of water. They flowed, even and sedate, and seeped to understanding without a hint of violence.

But her worry was still evident, a crease in his niece's brow that had no natural right to be there. Brynden offered her more honesty. This time of a harsher kind; the kind meant to carry the heavier types of guilt. "Do you think your husband is the only man to kill babes, my lady?" Such ugly words were spoken so gently. "Do you think your father hadn't killed children during the Rebellion, then again at Pyke? Your brother in his march south? Me wherever my sword is needed?" He scuffed closer to her along the bench, his warmth enough to prompt Sansa to lean against him. "It's easy to read judgment on a ledger, my lady," he whispered. "But the reasons of matters are never so clearly inked."

"I didn't want this."

"Did you want the North, my lady? Winterfell?"

There was nothing more than genuine inquiry in him. And as he regarded her with such a familiar warmth, Sansa could not stop the squeeze in her chest and the watery blur of her vision. "Yes," she breathed.

"And that's more the reason Lord Tywin removed the option of choice. Your man settles matters in sharp lines - there is no slope to leave room for regret. No opportunity for retribution against your son once he takes his seat."

Her great uncle leaned into her a little more and for a quick moment Sansa wanted to view his comfort as suspect, but those thoughts were just as quickly stomped away by a riot of caring acceptance. She relaxed against the man who had become so much to her in such a small amount of time. With her great uncle, Sansa was allowed to become the girl she was before she matured too abruptly; that small part of her, who she was, that lived in the background was encouraged and embraced by this man, and she gave it to him without hesitation.

"It only takes one, Sansa," Brynden continued, squinting toward where the water met the sky. "One babe with a chance to live - to grow up with a grudge - and your own children could be at the wrong end of a blade."

Looking out once more at the vast and turbulent waters, Sansa had felt a little better. There at the edge of the sea she was not Eddard Stark's only living heir, nor was she Tywin Lannister's wife; there in the presence of an infinite power, Sansa was but a tiny existence.

She had nodded to her advisor then, she understood. Ser Brynden's words had made the impact they were meant to, and Sansa refused repentance of anything that pertained to her children. Sansa missed her sons as though a part of her soul had been left at Casterly Rock, but she would never allow her own selfishness to endanger them...

It was with a shudder Sansa could blame on the cold that rightful acknowledgement came knocking. _She_ was that one babe allowed to live. With that epiphany came further clarification - that grudge was just another word for debt, and she had been given means to pay regardless of what it was called.

And _that_ recognition was not as bitter as it should have been.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin found her standing in the charred solar that once belonged to her father. The room still held the faint smell of smoke, but had been cleaned considerably and housed an adequate desk for their purpose.

His wife stood at an angle, arms tucked around her middle, looking out the large pane of heat-warped glass; her eyes were distant, but her focus went no further than the grounds just without. She did not hear him enter through the newly installed doors, but when she scoffed and chuckled in an airy tone he addressed her.

"Something amusing?"

Hers was the only laughter he would tolerate, enjoy even, she knew, and so Sansa kept her gaze toward the outside as she spoke honestly. "I've had the North won for me, my lord."

She was about to include the humour she found in the shallow reveries she'd had as a small girl, of knights and princes winning kingdoms and castles for her when Tywin interjected on her thoughts.

"My queen."

His tone was severe and Sansa, expecting him to have a scowl that was mocking her, wore a defensive look as she turned at the waist to look back at him. There was nothing of the sort on him. No scowl, no look in his eyes telling her she was stupid.

Sansa softened her own features, curved her lips, blinked slowly at him, and replied, "My king."

Tywin cocked an eyebrow at his wife and huffed lightly, "Now we're both bloody fools."

Sansa grinned broadly at her husband and held her hand out to him. Ever cautious, Tywin hesitated momentarily before accepting her affection, sliding his fingers over hers, curling them around her hand in a practiced embrace. He allowed her to pull him to a position behind her. She settled back only slightly, his armour preventing her from being completely comfortable. Although, once stilled, she felt him pivot his hand in hers until their fingers twined.

The view through the window was terrible. From the misted smoke-stained glass, to the evidence of carnage and brutality in the yard beyond, but Tywin knew well the look his wife wore was one of contemplation. And if he were to guess, she was viewing the scene as something she remembered from her childhood, something soothing and pleasant. He rested his lips on the top her head and soaked in her contentment. Hers was an air of peace Tywin was certain he could feel through the hardened steel of his breast plate.

The lion found himself soothed as well.

There was a soft knock on the servants' passage before it opened, and at the same time Tywin's squire entered his wife stepped away from their intimacy.

The boy was there to remove his armour for prep and polish and in waving the nervous boy to him with a twirl of his fingers, Tywin watched Sansa seemingly glide to the small table holding wine and begin to pour for them both.

Without looking toward her husband, Sansa spoke clear and kind, "Thank you for delivering my letter, Darin."

Focused on the steel he was gently disassembling from his liege, the squire's eyes went impossibly wide, and he made a small squeaky sound before actual words formed from of his mouth. "You're welcome, my lady," he said with a gush of air.

When the boy's gaze drifted to that of his lord, he physically startled at the man. Lord Tywin was glaring at him in a way made Darin suddenly need to make water: jaw clenched and grinding, head tilted slightly.

With another squeak and a fit of inspired speed and dexterity, Darin had the armour set away, his lord washed, freshly laundered clothes set out, and waited to determine if his assistance was needed to dress. All while Lord Tywin looked fit to murder... _him_. By the time he was dismissed, Darin had sweated through his tunic and all but ran away in terror.

"You shouldn't tease him," Tywin halfheartedly growled at his wife, as he sat in his chair and watched her set two goblets of wine on the dense wood of the desktop.

"Beg pardon?" She questioned dryly, one brow raised.

"The boy," he grinned, no longer able to keep his serious ruse, "you exploit him with your charm."

"I do no such thing, my lord," she scoffed lightheartedly, grinning sly in her own right. "Not to Darin, at least."

With another growl, he pulled his wife to him. Her knees could not conform to the direction he was tugging her and the chair that was trying to bend them queerly. She collapsed onto his torso with a rather undignified grunt. Reaching his arm around her arse, he pulled once more to cradle Sansa on his lap.

It was daylight, in the midst of rule and repair, hardly appropriate for these types of actions, but Tywin could not care less. Theirs was an unhurried stillness then, something built of longing and contemplation.

Something that defied time altogether.

He swept his fingers over her smiling lips, blinked a languid gaze directly at her, and murmured his aching confession. "Beautiful."

His wife's lips widened behind his fingers, speaking around them. " _Beautiful,_ " she asserted.

Lord Tywin narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing for any trace of foolishness.

Of course there was nothing.

She kissed his fingertips instead, tethering him back from distraction, and was rewarded with a gentle smile from the old lion. Sansa reached her own delicate hand to the side of his face and set her fingers to wriggle into the shaggy hair on his cheeks, at the same time offering soft words. "I thought men didn't like being called beautiful."

Lord Tywin brushed his fingers from her lips, over her cheek, dusting past her eyelashes, to caress the thick waves of auburn that tumbled over the arm he was using to support her before gently leaning his mouth onto hers; he purred directly into the silky, pink pout, "My masculinity is _quite_ secure."

She curled her hand around the back of his head and made the connection. Their kiss was not heated, but quenching and leisurely.

A shuffling noise of movement outside the doors had Sansa smiling at him, silently imploring him to set her upright.

Before she took her seat beside him behind the desk though, Sansa again stroked his side whiskers and pressed a peck of a kiss onto the top of his head. Tywin smirked at her behaviour, knowing it was the kind of affection she would employ with their sons.

Sitting together with wine and the task of rule was a blanket of familiarity. They not only had the West and the North, but Kevan had sent forward the more pressing matters of the Crown - the ones he knew his brother would want to peruse. When Tywin sighed loudly at a particularly tedious exchange between the bartering of livestock and parcels of land, his wife chuckled softly - goading him knowingly.

"Lions do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep," he grouched - for her benefit.

"They should," she murmured in reply, keeping her eyes on the parchment in her hand.

Tywin looked at his wife with a dour edge that immediately lightened; she had a purpose for her words and he wanted to know it. Her eyes flicked a glittering hold on him and he waited for his lady to show him what conclusions she had surmised.

"Dismissal breeds fear," she told him in her thoughtful way. "If sheep live in fear they will either die or move on to safer lands. And what does that leave but a starving lion?"

At her conclusion, there was a look in his eyes that was so warm, yet still so foreign, that she could see it visibly waver. Sansa felt confident what she was seeing was a cut of happiness.

"And how long have you been waiting to say _that_ , my lady?"

She was the one to smirk as she answered, "Oh, many moons, my lord."

She smiled fully at him then, the one that was his alone. He did not reciprocate, but his pleasant look remained and that was enough for her.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the one they both did not know they craved until it was missing. Reading and prioritizing, they were readying for their eventual reversal. Tywin returning south, and Sansa remaining... He hated to think of it. He refused to, in fact. It would only serve to jostle his ire and the old lion wanted only the companionable quiet.

Reading the contents of the next missive, Tywin thought of his wife - precisely, he thought of how she adapted in the West. How she claimed the seat of Casterly Rock like it had been meant for her in its conception.

She had shadowed him in his daily routine, sat with him on counsel, and observed him in the great hall addressing petitioners. And the moment he stood back, Tywin could see very well his own influence in the way she held herself, her father in the manner she ruled the crofters and lords who stood before her, but he could also see her mother in the way in which she defined herself as scrupulous. She had the Maester train more men specifically for dictation, _specifically_ to record the details of each and every protestation brought before her. And though she would not disclose her inspiration for such steps, he knew they were the lingering sway of Tyrion - as his were the best kept notations for drainage in the Rock's lengthy history.

But Tywin would not begrudge her those nuances. He allowed her the freedom to rule as she found favourable, as long as it was befitting him and the Lannister name, and by all accounts her methods were. She was fair and firm in her negotiations of land disputes and incoming mercantile trades, unafraid to heed advice from those he trusted to sit with her; and she was equally fair and firm in her adherence to laws and morality.

While Tywin would never place his wife in the bracket of cut-throat, she was not ignorant to the process of punishment - in all its forms. The first time she sentenced a man to die, for the crime of theft against his liege, he watched her internally deliberate the value of the Lannister horse the man stole against the life he was willing to spend for it.

He had stood in the shadows at the far edge of the dais, cloaked, unrecognized, and just beyond Sansa's peripheral. He did not want to be looked upon for direction from her, or confirmation from any of those standing in the hall. Regardless of her judgment, Tywin would never hold word against her in public. A division between them was nothing if not weakness and he would not provide that particular satisfaction to anyone.

Though her hesitation _had_ become worrisome; but as his wife also had a penchant for dramatics, he found he could not fault her in this scenario. When she delivered her sentence there was no falter or caution, no blink or look to her counsel for support, there were simply considerations of established law and the consequence for the man's disregard of them.

Lady Sansa had handed the man his death as though she were inviting him into her confidence; with an elegant sadness without a fraction of regret. There would be no flogging prior, or parade to the gallows, the thief would be removed from the hall, given a meal if that was his preference, then put to the sword.

Tywin hadheard tittering around him of northern deaths and scrounging for weirwood, then those same men joked if she would be the one to swing the steel. They were all rendered silent when the condemned man spoke loud and clear, wanting the attention of the court.

He thanked his lady. The man thanked the woman who had ended his life, uttering such gratitude one would think she had offered him gold instead. Sansa had simply nodded modestly in acknowledgement - a reaffirmation of her graceful power.

On that account alone, Tywin found no grounds to doubt his wife's ability to judge; therefore, when he read the missive from Lord Crydene, he was agitated that her more delicate sensibilities had crept up in his absence.

And he would not be made a fool of.

Handing the missive over, Tywin watched as Sansa leaned back in her chair and rested the fingers not holding parchment on the base of her wine goblet. They made subconscious rudimentary shapes as she read; it was when the tips of her fingers traced the complicated embellishments and her eyes remained focused on the page that he recognized she was formulating her debate.

Sansa knew her husband assumed the worst of her, that she had bowed to the sensitive nature of _the weaker sex_. But she also knew that Tywin had taught her to see through those very people who sought a tender target in her, hoping to exploit the gentleness of a woman. She had been educated by a man who would accept nothing less than unbiased concern in her regard for anyone outside their tight-knit circle.

More than that, he had taught her _why_ it was important. _Why_ unchecked compassion amongst strangers is a death sentence; _why_ her sons were surrounded by thousands bound to protect them, but only a handful that were truly earning of her trust. So when she read the parchment handed to her, she knew her actions were sound. That her instinct and decrees were just.

Tywin did not speak, but Sansa understood what he was asking and promptly relayed the incident of the servant girl who presented both herself and her babe in the halls of Casterly Rock. Who told a story of her lord forcing himself on her repeatedly. Of how that same lord beat her because she was too pregnant to work, and two days after his child was born, beat her again for crying while he took her.

"These people should have never laid footfall at the Rock," Tywin chastised.

"No, but her wish was to leave his service, and her lord violently refused-"

"As is his right."

"-and some of those instances were witnessed by others. It was _their_ lobby that landed the incident at our feet. Not the plot of a kitchen maid."

"And?"

" _And_ the son looks nothing like the mother, yet the boy is Lord Crydene in everything but name."

"What was your decision?"

"I gave the boy a name."

"You petitioned the King to legitimize his bastard?"

"I did, and it was granted," she said, matter of fact. "Lord Crydene is an upstart, no more than two generations deep. He has no intentions of marrying, and has no heirs, my lord." Sansa took a sip of wine and continued with every confidence, "Instead of the cost of a keep and its lands left empty and not producing, I simply ensured future revenue as their liege. As is my duty."

Tywin looked at his wife and dissected her every movement and word, subtle and otherwise.

"I will have him wed the girl," he clipped. "At least the child will have their marriage to prove succession, not just a name."

The old lion waited.

Sansa assumed a posture and a look that dropped what warmth there was in the room to frigid.

"He _raped_ her, my lord," she intoned carefully, her gaze not once faltering.

It was the weakness he suspected, was hoping against. Even so, the woman in front of him was nowhere near feeble, her words were anything but flippant.

Tywin flicked his hand absently, purposefully, shrugging as he spoke, "And now he will bear the burden of consequence."

"And now _she_ will be the prize her Lord bestowed upon the man who tortured her." There was nothing timid in her as she backhandedly scolded his being obtuse.

Her husband would have none of it.

"Her feelings are not my concern." His words were as cool as hers. "As you say, my lady, it is but my duty to maintain the integrity of the West, for _all_ its lords."

His wife would have none of it.

"There is no integrity in allowing a man to rape under the guise of rights and law. It's a mockery."

There was a sudden stillness to the room, and Sansa did not dare move.

Though there was hope.

She could see he was listening. There lived a glimmer in his eyes, but she knew any pleading toward the sensibilities of women would meet deaf ears. Sansa opted for what had always appeased her husband's personal sense of righteousness: gains. Cold profit and emotionless advantages.

"I have sent the girl and her son to Crakehall." The fact her statement was truth added to the finality of her claim. "The girl has been hired to the kitchens and the boy will be warded. He will receive the education he needs with men who will teach him to serve you loyally."

Tywin's serious countenance did not waver; bodily, he was unmoved. The only physical indication of consideration that Sansa could see was the subtle waves in his side whiskers as his jaw flexed.

"The girl will stay at Crakehall." His voice was rigid. "When the boy is of age, he will ward at the Rock." Tywin tilted his head and looked amidst bothered and angry. "What better way to breed loyalty, no?"

It had been many moons but Sansa knew compromise in her husband when she saw it. It was something begrudged, something hated to the man, yet it was something he forced of himself on occasion - for her.

If only for its reward.

When his wife smiled her approval, acknowledgement that he had pleased her in some way, it always seemed to shift the world around him. It brushed back whatever nuisance lay outside the two of them, if only for a little while, and lightened him significantly.

It made him happy.

The puzzle of happiness had always been well within reach and highly attainable, it only required him to momentarily see with better eyes in order to find it waiting - beseeching him to solve it and claim his bounty.

Thoughts of contentment and Casterly Rock brought with them contemplation of his sons. "How fare _our_ children?" he asked through a whisper, the words uncomfortable in his mouth.

The pooling in her eyes caught him off guard. Though nothing fell, it was a wave of emotion he had to deliberate. The question had been a simple one, he would have thought, and her overreaction was enough to prod his ire.

"What is it Sansa?" he kept his tone in check, just.

She looked at her husband squarely. Her baleful eyes obviously shoving him outside his comfort. She could see him fighting between empathy and anger. "My younger brothers..." she cleared her throat; once, then twice. "Rickon wasn't much older than Tysan and Rykar when my mother left him and Bran..." She looked to her hands in her lap, swallowing hard, blinking back everything that was threatening to spill forth.

Tywin felt his face pinch in a subconscious wince. He knew the story well, he was part of it. Forced into action and pulled into war by the knee-jerk vindication of a woman claiming justice for _her_ child by abducting the Imp.

Consequence begetting consequence, begetting consequence...

"...They never saw each other again," she finished, pushing the words out as fast as she could.

Tywin watched his lady with keen intent. He did not know if this was the beginning of the end, if this was how she was telling him of her decision. When Sansa lifted her eyes to him, it was all he could do not to flinch, but her words were not the ones he expected.

"I want you to spend time with them," she implored. Her husband merely stared, so she clarified, "Your sons, Tywin, I want you to spend time with them when you get back."

"You are not my mother, you'll not dictate to me." The words were such a practiced defense Tywin hardly knew he had said them.

"No, my lord, I am _their_ mother and I am asking their father to spend time with them."

"If I can, I will," he sighed, scrubbing his face with his hand.

"Thank you, my lord."

Sansa considered her surroundings thoughtfully, then added gently, "Sons should always know the love of their father."

"That's a fool's concept," he snapped thoughtlessly.

They sat looking at each other, the tense atmosphere lasting only a heartbeat as something considerable stole behind Tywin's eyes. If it was an apology it would remain unaired, she knew. But Sansa also knew that this was _her_ compromise: to acknowledge her husband was capable of remorse in small doses, without demanding verbal confirmation.

"Love is a fool's _word_ , my lord," she said, her tone engaging if not a playful. "However, the concept is rather sound."

Tywin broke eye contact then, again something flashing over his countenance. This time it was something darker, sadder. He nodded absently before directing his attention to the missives in front of him, their conversation at an end.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The evening was formal. A celebration feast for the return of the Stark lineage within the halls of Winterfell. However the extravagance of it was foreign yet quite welcome, if Tywin were to judge, to those in attendance.

She looked at ease, his wife. She held herself as though she had never left, and those men who eyed her warily that morning now regarded her approachable demeanour as something familiar, something they had once lost and now found. And though none save a few made the effort to talk to her, Tywin could easily see the men before her wanted to - as was the goal - _he_ simply had to step away and let it happen.

The seat of the North was a tactical necessity if he was to hold any kind of geographical domination; therefore he would play their game willingly, and he did so without so much as a pause. Tywin knew very well who held singular influence over the woman these men so coveted.

Glancing to his side, that same woman was staring at him with a fiery intensity that surged straight to his cock. He had felt a wave of desire the moment he saw her in the bailey, but was able to suppress that need. This however... _This_ was a force that swept him up and shook him with lewd abandon.

Her eyes were hazy as she looked right at him, a pink flush was clawing its way up her neck.

Sansa turned her head sharply and it was like their connection was made of glass, cracked and shattered as she twisted away. She was speaking in hushed tone to the Blackfish, and just as quickly looked back to him. Her eyes no longer pulled at him, they reflected her natural kindness, and she jutted her chin slightly - a silent request for him to lower his ear to her.

He obliged.

"I will expect you in my chambers tonight, not amongst your host, my lord."

The corner of Tywin's mouth twitched downward, like he'd been hurt. _Very nearly, to be sure_. His blood felt of molten lead, a sinking heat pooling in the place his wife was begging for with her hitched breathing and fingernails curling into his forearm. He could only nod, the fucking beast that he was, every word he thought to speak turned to smoke before he had a chance to utter them.

Sansa's mouth was still by his ear, he could feel it curve at the corners, and it required every thread of discipline he possessed - tattered as it was because of her - to stop him from hoisting her over his shoulder, like a savage himself, retiring to the first darkened nook and making quick work of burying himself inside her.

In one fluid motion, she stood - Tywin followed her lead, ears buzzing, body numb from trying to fight his cock from becoming an embarrassment.

Winning the battle to stay upright, the lion gathered control of his senses in time to hear his wife speak.

"Please, my lords, I ask you to stay and enjoy the hospitality that has been absent in Winterfell for far too long." She slipped her hand into his. The delicate thing was fidgety, and he could only imagine what other parts of her were twitching. "I am wary from my journey," Sansa continued, "but rest assured, this will be the first of many celebrations."

Tywin stood tall, his face a serious mask, and listened as in nearly one voice the northern men and women thanked their lady first - and her lord husband second.

It was a slight, to be sure, but the old lion was too distracted to be baited, too distracted by the salacious images his mind was conjuring of his wife to remotely care.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

When he walked into the suite of rooms he had selected for his lady, he found her standing close to the hearth. The proximity to the bright blaze of the fire rendered her bedgown translucent - and his throat immediately dry. He could see every curve that haunted him, and it sent a sudden tremor of nervousness down his spine. It was a ridiculous notion, to be shy in her presence, but it was something he could not shake.

Even so, Tywin felt himself drawn to her as though compelled - the moth to her particular flame.

Sansa did not move nor turn to him as he approached, but when he closed the distance between them fully, she felt his heat take precedence over the hearth-fire and her body sought its own comfort as she leaned back into a welcoming embrace.

There was no mail or plate between them now, nothing cold or inhibiting.

Tywin had been dressed in a light tunic and breeches and boots; his standard attire, save the boots, for sleeping amidst the unrest of battle. And though the North had been relatively secured, his habitual nature would not be quelled.

She made to move, taking hold of his hand and offering a coy whisper, "Follow me."

Tywin scoffed at her. Even though he stood half hard for his wife, Tywin would always resist an attempt to subjugate him.

Stopping at his huffed ridicule, Sansa turned back toward Tywin, stood on her toes and kissed the man hard on the mouth. In an instant, the old lion had one hand in full possession of her arse and the other meandering through her hair and cupping the back of her skull. She was bent back allowing him to curl over her body and stake his claim on her lips.

When Tywin pulled his wife to stand upright once more, Sansa's fingers were dancing magic through his whiskers and over his scalp.

She created a gap between their bodies to entice him. " _Follow me_." This time her voice was built in a low-pitch grit of lust; the same tone that could burn him from the inside out, that seared his skin without leaving a wound.

His northern bride scorched him like the bite of frost.

He followed.

Once in the privacy of her small bedchamber, Tywin made a possessive grab for his wife, pulling her back to his chest. Encouraging her head to recline back against his shoulder, he buried his mouth and nose in her hair, foraging until his tongue and teeth could work against the soft skin of her neck. His hands roamed along her front, needy for her; long fingers found the cleft of her cunt through the fabric of her bedgown and he growled at the spread of moisture wicking under their tips. His other hand found laces, then the soft mounds of flesh those laces here hiding.

 _It has been far too long_ , his mind reasoned. His body would simply have to map hers again - the chore that it was.

Hooking his fingers into the fabric of her loosened collar and peeled the garment down and away, exposing her to the waist. Every breath he took behind Sansa, pushed her breasts out into his waiting palms, bowing her, neck and all, like a sacrifice to the gods.

Sansa turned in his arms, eyes lidded heavily, her breath ragged on the intake, and wriggled against the arousal straining in her direction. She stood on her toes and kissed him again, her hands working in tandem to untuck his tunic and tug loose the leather straps holding him back from her.

Removing his tunic fully, his loosened breeches sagging low in turn, the lion gauged his wife's reaction.

Along his torso, Tywin was painted with new marks and scars. Linear scrapes and bruises from his shoulder to the pits of his arms where his breastplate sits and presses. He was sporting a large black bruise just above his hip, from sparring. But it was the angry red seam that bisected the skin over ribs, vertically along his flank, that would be her test. The old lion did not quite know what he was expecting, all he knew was that he would not tolerate fawning, even from Sansa.

She did not so much as coo or tsk his injuries, as some wives were prone to do. Instead, Sansa stepped toward him, so close to him that she stole his heat and gave him her own. It was a distraction most cunning, she pressed the ghost of her lips first to the marks by his shoulders, then to the edge of the deep bruise at his hip.

When her attentions turned to the angry red ridge - proof that mail will stop a slashing blade but barely slow down a sharpened tip of steel - it was her fingers that found it first. Her subtle touch coaxed a yearning sigh from him, and when her mouth laid soft open kisses there too, his mind screamed out its want of her flesh and bodily his breath punched out of his lungs. This, _this_ was what he dreamt of, what lingered inside him when he woke up sweating and frustrated.

Her eyelashes tickled his skin; her palm teased the insistent ache of his cock.

Tywin walked with her held close, danced their languid steps to the edge of the bed, and divested them of their clothes completely. But it was Sansa who splayed her hand on his chest and pushed him down in the most delightful form of coercion.

She climbed over and knelt between his legs, taking in the sight of her husband laid out and at her command as her body thrummed its own opinion. Her fingers pushed lazily around his thighs, through the coarser hair, the pad of her thumb roamed over a red bump. For all the dents and brands of battle that his body had earned, fresh and old, it was a small blemish that reiterated his existence as mortal.

She basked tenderly at her lord.

Leaning low to him, Sansa rested the flat of her tongue at the base of Tywin's cock and grinned at the sound of a long exhaled groan from the direction of the pillows. She flicked the tip of her tongue over the ridges and loose skin of his sac, anticipating his reaction. Her husband did not disappoint. He scrambled to lean on his elbows, to elevate his view and take in what his wife was doing to him.

Tywin could not find the voice to say the words that would tell her to stop; his mind started revolting from pleasure, focusing on the whore on her knees in his tent, but all he could do in the physical world was breathe heavily and moan every time her tongue laved his prick or balls.

His mind utterly fucking left him the moment she rested her arms across his pelvis and lifted his leaking cock to her mouth. The height on his elbows suddenly made him dizzy, causing him to drop back to the bed. It was her name that formed itself in the sound of his voice, but he was not sure if it was him that truly spoke, the only thing he could focus on was Sansa's hot mouth swallowing him.

His hands made to venture toward her hair, but rather stopped their trek to rest safely on the linens at his side. He knew he would not be disappointed this time, but he could not bring himself to seek that kind of comfort. Breathing in deep lungfuls, Tywin concentrated on her. On her mouth working lower, on her tongue petting and working its own magic on the underside of his cock, on the gentle squeeze she applied to his balls, on the familiar stop as she took him in as far as her mouth would allow.

Sansa made little movements, bobbing in tiny increments, and with a look of hunger her husband could not see, she adjusted her jaw as though to yawn, held her breath, closed her eyes and slowly took his length into her throat completely. Stopping only when her nose nuzzled into the sparse thatch of golden curls at the base of his cock.

She could hear Tywin's fingers grip the bed linen to the point of tearing as she felt his body arch at her efforts; above everything Sansa heard the gasping cry of a man enjoying a new pleasure. Feeling the need to swallow, her throat made the motion, constricting in ripples around Tywin's girth. She was pleased when his legs spread wider and his hips flexed upward, exploring this new found ecstasy.

It was short lived; the need to breathe made itself known. As Sansa pulled away, she sucked and lapped and teased with the barest of teeth, watching while his eyes came into view.

Her docile gaze met his look - one that was caught between amazement and disbelief.

"I found your book," she muttered shyly. Speaking into the silky skin at the tip of his cock, pausing only a heartbeat before wrapping her lips around him again.

"I don't remember th-" Everything turned into a groan as she swallowed him to the root once more. Nothing mattered but the pull of her throat.

Releasing him again to find air, Sansa gazed transfixed at the horizon of Tywin's torso - every muscle twitching, his chest labouring for air.

"There were no illustrations for... _this_ ," she hummed at the delirious man, "only written instructions."

"There were words?" he mumbled airily to a point on the ceiling, his smile clear and on display.

When she sat up fully, it was the overall sight of Tywin that caused her to tingle in desire. His head had fallen back and he was sporting a deep flush from the base of his neck to the top of his scalp. She certainly earned the edge of smug satisfaction she wore - more so when he looked at her with thoroughly bleary eyes.

Moving one knee outside his legs, Tywin took the hint to close them, giving her room. She was so wrapped up in concentration, Sansa did not notice the one hand, then two, that sought and found her breasts.

His thumbs had just begun to tease her nipples, pebbling them under his touch, when he felt her sit.

Sansa had straddled his hips and lowered her heat over his sensitive cock laid flat against his belly, and with the first sway of her hips she slid, hot and wet, up the length of him then down again.

At the sweet pressure of her cunt stroking him, all the air in his lungs was forced out once more; and with it, words. "I need to fuck you, Sansa," he rasped. His plea matched his hands that were now enclosed on her hips. "I _need_ to be inside you."

Her mute affirmation came by way of rising on her knees, guiding his cock to her entrance, anchoring her hands on his forearms, and filling herself in one long, slow downward settle.

Sansa's mouth opened a little, her soft cry a heady song.

Tywin hissed a quiet moan that was broken by muttered profanity as he watched her descent.

The casual grasp he held on her hips strengthened as he absorbed the give of her tight flesh. The sight of her slacked lips forming delicately mewled vowels and hazy eyes that never moved from his hit him with a raw sense of excitement.

The hairs on his arms stood up.

She was lightning in the room, dangerous and exquisite at the same time.

He had to savour it all.

After the first lift and fall Sansa was already constricting deep in her belly. After the tenth and eleventh time his cock teased then filled her, she dug her nails in Tywin's skin and ground out her release on his pubic bone.

He encouraged her to fall forward on his body, as her hips made greedy little movements to ride out her pleasure. Clasping both hands in her hair, angling them to see her beautiful face, Tywin raised his knees and anchored his feet, then proceeded to lift his hips and thrust into her deeply.

The look she wore every time his cock pushed into her was both a wish and a curse; her eyes were barely open, her bottom lip was trapped in her teeth, and everything about her sent a hot wave of lust from the middle of his chest to the point where they connected. Wrapping his arms around her, Tywin rolled them until she was comfortable underneath his weight. Her legs draped over his hips and he felt her hands mark their own territory along his body.

He watched her as his cock pushed its way into her again and stilled once he became fully seated.

In those moments he saw his own vulnerability. Not in its entirety, simply a phantom suggestion of what he was bound to lose. And in a sickening wash, his mind registered that current needs and wants were insufficient, with it he felt his desire manifest into possession in its purest form.

Tywin's eyes looked _through_ his wife as his entire demeanor changed above her.

Everything in his vicious jolts of movement, in his whining huffs, spoke of a desperate need and of a furious compulsion. It was as though she were going to disappear once their encounter ended.

Tywin felt so full of helplessness he shuddered, causing the pleasure in his body to twist into an anguish that beset his mind. Every moment with her, in her, was a moment already gone. And this newest fracture compelled him to consume every morsel of her, have contact with every living piece of her, before there was no time left.

Before _he_ left.

He was losing control.

Sansa placed a firm palm to each side of his face, forcing him to look, willing him to read her eyes, but when his own eyes switched and pulled at a pace she could not read, Sansa resorted to words.

"Slow..." she breathed, her body rocking in higher arcs to show him what she wanted. "Gently."

Her husband blinked out of his abysmal daze, whimpering a desolate moan and sliding to a skittish understanding; short punishing thrusts became long teasing strokes, a digging grip into her flesh became the tender exploration she was used to from his fingertips. She still had his face in her restrain, his features softening from the sharp chaos they once were.

Tywin rolled his hips and it was all she could do to keep his eye as she moaned out her pleasure directly at him. She spoke a primal language, one that had nothing to do with vernacular and everything to do with instinct. He dipped his mouth to his lady and kissed. Softly at first, tasting her lips and her tongue, then he sucked a little harder and nipped with a little more pressure as her heels gathered just over his arse, commanding his rhythm to that of her whim.

The familiar tightening of release was building - burning in his belly, wringing its way to his groin.

A preemptive wave of pleasure fluttered through her lion. Sansa felt his cock harden further, nudging the place within her that he sometimes sought exclusively. She gasped and pulled inward with her heels.

He was at the very edge of his peak when, using one hand, he loosed one of her legs from his waist, splaying her open. At the same moment his lungs forgot to work, his heart sped, and he felt himself contract at his core, Tywin pulled away from the clutched heat of his wife. His free hand gripped and stroked the slick length of his cock as he spilled his seed on the skin of her belly, groaning her name with every pull.

Sansa felt empty the instant Tywin removed himself from her. She felt incomplete and could not decide if it was emotional irrationality, or if it was something physically genuine. Whatever it was, the bereft feeling swayed first to annoyance than to concern.

"You've... You've never done that before," she panted.

Tywin had his eyes closed. His ducked head rested between her breasts as he took deep tugs of air through his nose getting his breathing in order, but mostly just wanting to enjoy her scent, _their scent_. He'd heard her. He did not _want_ to ignore her, but the alternative was to address what he was feeling, and that was nothing he was prepared to do.

"It's a night of firsts then," he whispered into her sternum, hoping the levity would sate her.

It did not.

"Tywin, why-"

Fury and impatience are a comfortable set of clothing for a man of his nature, such an easy robe to slip into when one wishes to avoid truths and hurts. The Great Lion snapped his head up, eyes glittering his ire. His teeth were bared as he swung forward bodily, his softened cock dragged up her belly, through his spend with the motion.

His face was so close, Sansa could feel the heat of his anger as it flushed his cheeks.

"I have done a great many ill deeds, Lady _Stark_ ," he spat the name and title in her face, "but I will _not_ leave you in this land of savages _compromised_!"

He was furious and she had no idea why.

Sansa tightened her fingers at his nape, the compassion on her face a clear and silent question of his well being, and it only angered him further. Tywin wrenched himself away from her forcibly, out of her grip, out of the warmth of her thighs, out of bed altogether. He yanked on his breeches and hastily shoved his boots into place on his feet. When he bent again, he picked up his tunic and it was only then he chanced a look at his wife.

Her leg was bent, knee raised slightly, taking her quim just out of view. One of her hands rested lazy between her breasts, where his mouth had just done the same. Her other hand was stretched out across the bed to him - a summons, a seduction of skin.

He clenched his back teeth.

She was watching him placidly, not a trace of tears or anger, or anything at all. Sansa was beautiful even in her disappointment, and it was the fucking bane of him.

 _Weakness_.

His gut ached in recognition of his devastating insecurity, but his ego refused to ignore the momentum of it. With a flick of his wrist, Tywin flung his tunic at her - specifically where his seed had gathered and cooled - and stormed out of the room without a word.

Sansa was left to wipe away every trace of him.

The place at the back of her jaw burned and watered. She wanted nothing more than to succumb to the sobs she knew were living just below the surface, but she could not. Not that she chose avoidance, there was simply no path. Her mind refused the emotion that would allow her to hide. Forcing her to think. To think and deduct and speculate.

 _Lady Stark_ , her thoughts echoed.

When Sansa rose early the next morning, it was Deena who told her of Lord Tywin's departure well before dawn.

And when asked if there was any correspondence or message from her husband, the Lady of Winterfell already knew the answer was no.

...

..

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	24. Spring IV

**This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence related to execution. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.**

...

..

.

The morning was grey and miserable. Two moons into her stay and Sansa had yet to see a solid day of sunlight. There were beams here and there - to the delight of all working out of doors - warmth sometimes on given afternoons, but for the most part the North stayed true to form. Not necessarily as she remembered it - it was always warm in her dreams - but how she'd heard it described by those who'd never stepped foot on her land.

Yet that day, in the first hours after dawn, her land seemed to emphasize only its most intolerable traits. Rain that could hardly be called a mist settled on man and land alike, sharp and bitter. So near ice was the dreary wet that it stung on contact with bare skin. Those wearing plate armor could be heard periodically scraping away an accumulated frozen membrane, and the puffs of steam created by conversation sunk when spoken, weighed down by the frosty drizzle.

Misery loves company, they say, and company was exactly what Lady Sansa was waiting for.

In that vein, the weather was deemed rather appropriate.

Waiting with their lady in Winterfell's bailey near the King's Gate entrance were advisers, personal guards, and scores of Lannister men ranging from soldiers to stable hands. All of whom exuded such a level of anticipatory uneasiness, the overall effect was palpable, even in the great expanse of the yard _ **.**_

The moment Lord Tywin departed from both her and the North, Sansa reined in her counsel and made sure Lord Manderly was aware of her agenda. While the large man was confused, he also understood her reasoning; while he was concerned, he also pledged his total support.

The muted sound of hooves and boots tramping the sodden ground coupled with the clanking rise of the heavy portcullis at the outer wall stilled any idle chatter in those chosen and who chose to stand in greeting with Lady Sansa. The sure-footed cadence of man and beast could be heard slowing. Then from the muffled calls and gradual commencement, Sansa could only assume her guests had officially arrived.

At first sight of nondescript figures emerging from the entrance arch and out of the heavy shadow of the curtain wall, Sansa felt her lungs ache in an effort to work. Lady Sansa had been holding her breath, unbeknownst, and she wasn't the only one. As more bodies filed through, most of the crowd entering on foot, it was her great uncle Brynden who stiffened noticeably then made a throaty noise. A wholly foreign and pitiful sound escaped from the man she knew, and that was something she found equally disconcerting.

The Blackfish turned away from the oncoming procession, toward his lady, piercing his great niece with intense watery eyes that made every threat to spill.

"I _can't_ ," he choked hoarsely. "I'm sorry, my lady, I can't see her."

Sansa laid a gentle hand on the forearm of her great uncle, her own features allowing nothing, but her eyes speaking in their natural understanding and caring for the man. "And I'll not force you, ser," she conceded, squeezing his mail a tiny amount. "Go find comfort inside, uncle. And, if you'd prefer, I will apprise you of details later this evening."

At her words the Blackfish blinked back his grief, straightened to his full height and bowed in his easy way. Sansa smiled softly at him, a silent indication that everything was well, and tightened her fingers for a beat before letting him go.

Ser Brynden spared no time, walking briskly past the welcome line toward the Great Keep, not once looking back. In his wake, Lord Manderly took his spot, trudging and wheezing himself to Lady Sansa's side and offering his arm.

So caught up in the figures looming larger through the gates, Sansa had rested her hand on his abundant forearm without a thought. At the first sight of her mother, emerging from the solemn group of threadbare fabrics and disheveled furs - like the dead animals themselves were fighting against their display - Sansa bit hard on her back teeth and squeezed tight the ample flesh beneath her fingers.

There was no trace of auburn left, her mother's hair now a shocking white. It looked brittle to the touch, but seemed to match her complexion. The scars on her face and neck were healed, though no less gruesome – they striped her cheeks like war paint the mountain clans wore into battle. Her harsh features cut even harsher angles, and her ashen skin only added to the deep shadows. However, her eyes hadn't changed at all from the last time Sansa had looked into them: unnaturally bloodshot and radiating unmitigated fury.

Lady Sansa's concentration and assessment was severed by the movement of a child.

A small willowy thing with blue eyes and wild tangles of brown hair, no older than three or four she would guess, perhaps older but left under-grown by her environment, ran unbidden to the woman that used to be her mother. The girl, as her clean but tattered dress and straw doll clutched tight would attest, didn't acknowledge anyone. Instead grasped at the dangling hand of the white-haired woman.

Lady Sansa couldn't help but smile gently at the little girl eying her shyly from behind a heavy curtain of worn brocade. And it was when the girl smiled back that Sansa shuddered, looking immediately and squarely to the face of Lady Catelyn. For a long moment they were locked in awful understanding: her mother had bore a child, a daughter, and Sansa would never know her. She had a sister, her sons had an aunt, who was within reach and all but dead to her at the same time.

As Sansa tracked the numbers and facts in her mind, attempting to disproved the accuracy of her initial assumption, she was equally forced to accept what she was seeing. Fate once again turned cruel, handing her one more bitter truth to swallow down, one more torment to set aside in order to carry on from.

Sansa felt her chest tighten under her cloak, the bodice of her dress suddenly far too tight, and a flush stained on her face to prove it. She could do nothing to stop her reaction, and her mother's mouth angled up at the corners in response - satisfied with the hurt Tywin Lannister's wife was enduring.

Behind the cruel woman, the tight-packed group of grubby warriors and outcasts swayed a little in order to make a gap for a grey-haired man who stood a more than a head above the rest and moved forward with a graceless gait. The man was tall, like Sandor, but the physical comparison ended there. This man was both familiar and a stranger all at once, and looked to be far too thin for his frame.

When he approached the little girl and Lady Catelyn, the woman didn't so much as glance in his direction. The child, however, turned and squealed - not in fright, but in apparent glee. It was when the veritable giant smiled down at the girl that Sansa's memories provided answers - of which, Lord Manderly's voice provided confirmation.

"Greatjon," Wyman mumbled sadly.

His fellow lord had been held prisoner at the Twins, the last anyone had heard. When he didn't return to the North when the Frey's castle fell, it was assumed the Lord Umber had perished. Yet here he was, a parody of his former self, his infectious grin aimed toward the little girl at his shins, while his eyes spoke of every manner of haunting.

"Papa!" the child laugh-screamed, with the enthusiasm owned strictly by babes.

The Lord of White Harbor and the Lady of Lannister stood rapt, paralyzed by the staggering truth of it all as the Greatjon swooped down without a word to procure his daughter in a tight embrace. Hugging her close, he turned and melted once again into the throng of Brotherhood behind him without so much as the faintest observance of his further surroundings or people he knew from his life before.

The voice of her mother broke any trance left by the quick succession of such surreal events. "Well, Lady Lannister, you have lured me here. What is it that you want?"

Lady Catelyn's fury toward her daughter seemed to have scattered over time, lessened as it spread, but the dispassionate tone she took was bordering on intimidation, and Sansa caught the warning flex of leather and mail from the dangerous quartet on guard one pace behind her. Over the years Sansa acquired a composed deportment while in the presence of the cunning and the ruthless, and it took no more than the shell of her mother to swat at it and unnerve her.

"Justice, mother-"

"Unless you are handing me the head of your husband, I don't see much of an offer by way of justice."

Lady Catelyn took a quick step forward, and in an instant Lord Manderly's free arm was stretched protectively between them; Sansa's own had reached back, hand splayed in silent entreaty, to stay the four warriors who were a swing away from dispensing the woman who had thought to menace their lady.

Her mother smirked at the call to action and calmly leaned over the large barrier.

Sansa immediately took in the smell she remembered as a child, as a young girl, sitting and smiling while her mother brushed her hair in long, loving strokes. It was the same smell that washed over her when she had been tucked in, when she needed reassurance, when she sought the comfort and protection that could only be found in the arms of her mother...

"I hear you've bred for your master."

Sansa's world burned once again at the malignant tone thrown at her by the woman in her mother's skin. As two sets of Tully blue eyes locked, that same burn calcified her heart, and whatever apprehension she initially felt fortified to outright resolution.

"Threaten me, mother," Sansa asserted coolly. "Threaten Lord Tywin if you feel you must, but carry one more word into whatever threat or observation you have about my children and you will find your life at a very limited extension."

Lady Catelyn leaned in further, her voice a frightening darkness, "It's easy to be brave when you're one scream away from your lion, little girl."

Lady Sansa stretched forward to close the gap between her and her mother, speaking in a deadly calm, " _I_ am the only lion in Winterfell, mother - and the only one you ever need fear."

The white-haired woman faltered, her eyes lost focus momentarily. A slip that played almost imperceptibly, but was there for true. One Sansa could see plainly at her proximity, and it seemed to twist the woman into something doubly vulgar and cruel.

"I think you're a liar," Catelyn sneered viciously. "I can smell his funk on you from here-"

" _Gods_ ," Lord Wyman hissed, cutting short her insult. He took a step toward the woman who had once held so much of his respect, using his impressive size to his advantage. "Move away, Lady Catelyn. I'm afraid I must insist."

The woman straightened and stepped back, turning her unending hate on him instead. "You've finally picked a side Manderly? How convenient for you."

Sansa could feel Lord Manderly stiffen in offense, and spoke to stymie the pending quarrel. "As I said, mother, I have invited you here as a matter of justice." She waited for the fiery, hurtful eyes to return their attention to her and continued, "Lord Tywin may have claimed the North from Lord Bolton, but punishment of the traitor has been left in my-"

" _Give him to me_!" Her mother frothed, abandoning whatever shreds of propriety she had clung to. Suddenly rabid and unpredictable, she thrashed in every direction looking for a glimpse of the man who had killed her first child, her son, her king.

Lady Sansa watched in her periphery, Harwin was walking in the direction of his lady. The look on his face was placid, nonexistent, and it was as though this were a course he had much experience with. And while the notion of her mother's reduced stability presented more questions than it did answers regarding her leadership ability, Sansa also knew command within the Brotherhood Without Banners was a position given, not won.

Harwin walked to a point precisely in front of her mother and spoke in a strong, calm timbre. "My Lady," he clipped; once, twice, until Lady Catelyn stopped searching and fixated on the voice of the man in front of her. The effect was instant, she ceased fidgeting and the wildness in her eyes banked until she was once more made of stone.

With a nod to a sentry at the far end of the bailey, Lady Sansa set into motion the parade of her doleful offering. A sacrifice to the woman so changed by the suffering she endured, and a prize of justice expected by those north men and women who survived their own agonies.

The misery of weather only added to the impending doom for bodies tethered together and shuffling as a group to a place in front of the white-haired woman. They each were still wearing overly soiled clothing to either feast or fight, and the sight would have been comedic if it hadn't been so tragic. Most had been kept in stables and kennels, treated worse than the animals they'd displaced, but they were at the conclusion of their stay in Winterfell.

This was their day of judgment.

Once the crowd had stilled, Sansa heard the distinct sound of whimpering and attempts to console those who were distraught, and clawing through that noise the Lady of Winterfell was addressed in voice that pitched to the point of being a shriek. It belonged to a frightened young woman who had pushed her way to the edge of the pond of bodies. She was older than Sansa, but nowhere near the height, and the dress she wore was once beautiful - that could easily be seen - yet so were the dark splashes and lines that had seeped into the fabric, defining the blood of those who fell around her at her capture.

The terrified woman focused her red-rimmed eyes at Sansa, horribly begging, " _Please_ , my lady." Her words coughed-out as a wet sob. "This is _not_ how justice is performed in the North!"

Every set of eyes were stabbing her: loyalists, the condemned, outlaws, and those of her mother. Lady Sansa was roiling in a storm of discomfort. It took a moment, though she expertly tucked all of it away inside, stepped around her insecurity and focused on the memories she needed.

"My lady, you are correct." Sansa's tone was affable, something that set men and woman at ease in her company. This circumstance was no exception. "There is an honour deeply embedded in northern justice." Her intonation then sunk to match the climate, "But your _king_ , and his men, were not afforded that honour, either."

The young lady was visibly shaking. "That was _war_!" she screeched, before crumpling at the feet of those agitated and grumbling around her.

Guilt by association.

Sansa knew this woman, most within the group of captives, had no hand in the brutal disloyalty at the Twins. No knowledge of their king's betrayal. But to bend now would be weakness, and to become weak at this pinnacle point would only serve to threaten her son in the future.

 _It only takes one... One babe with a chance to live... and your own children could be at the wrong end of a blade._

Her courage steadied. Lady Sansa would _not_ be timid on the grounds of her ancestors, in the name of all those she had lost. She raised her chin to address the crowd, address every single soul assembled, but it was her mother that shook them all.

" _My_ war is not yet finished." Her voice like curdled milk, Lady Catelyn stepped toward the crowd, "And _you_ will die anyway."

The drone of muttered complaint stopped. Save a few horses neighing, there was no sound around them, not even that of nature - the drizzling rain choosing that moment to end abruptly and the wind becoming scarce. It was eerily quiet, the kind that raises hair to stand on the back of one's neck.

The white-haired woman walked a small arc in order to best face the weeping young lady in the group, but it was every captive that she was addressing. "I care no more for _you_ than your fathers, sons, brothers, and uncles cared for _me_ ," she drawled casually.

Looking at Lord Wyman for only a moment, Lady Catelyn's entire face shifted to remembrance and sorrow, her voice marked that same sadness. "I saw the way they happily butchered Wendel Manderly." She paced slowly, back and forth, like a caged animal. "I watched Smalljon Umber fend off a score of men from _his king!_ " she bellowed, then sunk her inflection to a crawling sneer, "before being held down and beheaded like a dog. Dacey Mormont had no hesitation in tearing into a throng of her own _allies!_ Only to be cut down."

Lady Catelyn stopped then, stood reed-straight, her voice equally hollow. The sound made Sansa's skin prickle.

"Lady Sansa is paying a debt not as a Lannister, but as a Stark, and she is the embodiment of northern honour in doing so."

Sansa's insides churned as she flicked her eyes at Lady Catelyn, but she could no more discern sincerity than she could before. Her heart would like to think that her mother forgave her, but she was not so naive to assume it. The woman's speech was cutting and poignant, and if her name was required to make it that way, then so be it.

"The Red Wedding will _never_ happen again," the Merciless Mother stated icily, "and your bodies will swing and rot from here to the Twins as a testament to the price of such treachery."

The white-haired woman turned her head to face Sansa. There was nothing of the passionate Lady Catelyn who was speaking only moments ago. This entity was of nightmares, and when it spoke, voices were heard from all directions.

It was something sinister.

"Bring me Bolton, his Frey whore, and his bastard."

Sansa turned and nodded to one of the men to her side. The soldier took another with him, waded into the sea of trussed bodies and emerged with the two of the three people that had been requested. With a small wave of her fingers, Sansa ordered her men to deliver their charges to the outlaw in their midst.

They did not hesitate in their compliance.

From the far end of the bailey, from the kennels, came both the marched symmetry of step and the defined groans of agony. Two of her men flanked Ramsay Snow. He had been trussed with his arms behind his back and a rod had been threaded through the gaps at his elbows - each side of the rod manned by a soldier. The bastard wasn't being restrained, he was being supported.

A fortnight with the Mountain's men reduced Snow both in faculty and flesh. Below each knee was nothing more than a pulpy mess. The bones were shattered and the holes at his heels were proof of being hooked by tendons and hung like game. His face was an equal horror: his lips were gone, his teeth had been chipped out, his tongue had been split and shortened, and the eye that remained was distant as if seeing only shadows. His skin was a tapestry of running sores and open wounds, and without the means to seal his lips the bastard simply let his head sag forward and leak any fluids that happened to collect in his mouth - all of it stringing down the front of what Sansa was sure were the remnants of a dress.

Whatever he was before - _a breathing abhorrence who delighted in killing those Sansa cared about_ \- _that_ man was nowhere to be found, having been excised through rituals of malice and pain.

She fought it. Sansa fought against the delicious want to approve of the bastard's suffering, and in the end she had indeed allowed that spark of revenge to live in her heart. Allowed its sour taste to coat the bitterness of loss.

Ramsay Snow would die today. That knowledge crept into her mind and made her chillingly happy.

Six men of the Brotherhood stepped forward to relinquish the captives from their handlers. With a man on each side them, Bolton and Walda were pushed to their knees. Ramsay struggled, as was his way, but his uselessness was more than apparent, causing the two men at his charge to first laugh at his attempts then simply lower the drooling, babbling wretch with the rod they were holding.

Facing a condemned crowd of peers and poor fools knelt the sum total of Sansa's nightmares: a broken bastard, a fallen lord, and an unwitting wife with an unfortunate surname - on either side of her marriage. In a wave it all felt so ridiculously petty, yet so significant in the same breath.

She lived an awful moment in which her guts wrung, and Sansa wanted nothing more than to run inside like she used to as a child when her siblings were being terrors. She wanted to cower in the warmth of her bed and have someone else relay the horror she knew she was about to witness...

Lady Stoneheart, as the small folk liked to call her, quietly paced a circle around the three people she had asked for.

The Frey woman looked preoccupied, her eyes were without focus. It was the look of loss and disparaging sorrow. A look that made Sansa's empathetic pain etch itself on her face. The act was something of a relief - it was a solid reminder that she would, indeed, suffer the emotional toll of her retribution.

She was not yet a monster, still prominently Stark, and she would gladly own the hurt of guilt.

Roose Bolton seemed wooden, yet tired, his vision as far away as that of his wife. This man's look held nothing of fear or remorse though, more so calculation and impatience. It was as though he knelt waiting for something as mundane as his morning meal and not his own death.

But Sansa could easily pick apart the truth behind Lord Bolton's mask: shame and embarrassment. However, neither were in reference or consideration of those he had summarily cursed, but motivated purely by selfishness. She was honest with herself in that her personal knowledge of remorseless men allowed her the opportunity to observe without any kind of hitch in her sensibilities. That same honesty prevented her from discerning whether or not her wisdom to that end was a strength or a weakness.

She looked on as Lady Catelyn continued her silent prowl around the unperturbed kneeling trio. As the larger crowd of doomed souls started to become restless, the woman's strategy became abundantly clear: disquiet the herd. The remaining captives would take each and every step of their journey steeped in anxious fear of their diminutive captor.

Without flourish or preamble, the white-haired woman ceased her pace and stood without movement behind Lady Bolton.

Her mother raised her hand and Sansa had an instant pang of awful anticipation. But was almost let down when the older woman rested her fingers lightly over the center of her breast, over the oddest jewelry Sansa had ever seen. It was an adornment Sansa failed to notice, even in passing as the procession of Brotherhood arrived, even as the woman stood directly in front of her.

Around the neck of her mother was finely braided leather cord, and attached to that cord was what looked like a petrified weirwood branch. It seemed to be over the length of her hand - from the tip of her middle finger, to the bottom of the heel of her palm - and curved slightly, more severely at the end that dangled lowest.

It was an odd accessory. Her mother once dressed with every consideration of surroundings and company...

Lady Stoneheart, standing behind Walda Bolton, clutched purposefully at her neck-piece and Sansa understood that _this_ woman dressed no differently. Pulling at the bottom end of the white branch, the white-haired woman seemed to separate it into halves. What became agonizingly clear was that the branch didn't break, it was actually a dagger being unsheathed.

The glint of steel was bright and distracting on such a dull morning, and the more her mother continued to slowly pull down, the more the delicate blade was revealed. It was slightly curved, no wider than her smallest finger, and no longer than the width of her hand...

 _Oh, gods!_ Her mind screamed as her memories pushed forward.

" _...He used a dagger... with a blade no longer than the width of my hand..."_ Her mother's terrifying words echoed in her wakefulness the same way that spectral voice sometimes inhabited her dreams. Sansa steadied herself on the arm of Lord Manderly, retracted behind the armour she loathed and loved simultaneously, and waited for the inevitable.

The two men at Walda's shoulders held a tighter grip at the same moment the white-haired woman drifted forward with the grace of flowing water. In a quick, flawless movement one hand fisted a hold of Walda's hair and the other hand slid forward along the side of her neck.

Swallowing hard, Sansa watched the beautiful little blade slip under doomed woman's flesh. It raised the skin on her neck like snake under sand, only to disappear inward with a practiced hook of her mother's wrist. It was mere moments that the knife was employed before being elegantly removed.

Sansa stood in mild confusion; she knew what death looked like, she even knew what the brutality of torture looked like, but this was none of those things. The wound from the dirk barely bled. Lady Walda was silent, kneeling, blinking out tears, and looking equal parts bewildered and pitifully hopeful that she had been offered some type of clemency.

It was several heartbeats until the Lady Bolton's eyes went frighteningly wide, in the same heartbeat she heard Lord Manderly curse under his breath - he knew what was happening. Sansa wanted to address the man at her side but was taken by the scene unfolding before her.

"Hum, my lady." Manderly whispered out the side of his mouth as quietly as he could. "Please, my lady, hum to yourself."

She was dumbfounded by Lord Wyman's bizarre instruction, and her comprehension came far too late.

It started as a wet rasp. Lady Walda tilted her head back minutely and opened her mouth a little - as one would to catch a deeper breath - and the sucking wet noise became louder. Sansa watched in horror as the kneeling woman started to writhe in panic, her sodden breathing ever increasing. When her struggle intensified, the men at her shoulders held her still to endure the creeping death.

Lady Walda screamed then.

She opened her mouth and let loose gurgling wails drenched in blood from a slit throat that was nowhere on the outside of her body. Her lungs coughed out the gore that was filling them - rivers of deep crimson blood, and foam of the most fetching pink trickled from her open mouth. The dying woman heaved violently, trying to take in the air it needed to live, her lungs refusing to fill with anything but the blood that had been diverted with malicious precision.

But it was the noise.

The sounds a slowly dying body makes as it tries to cling to vestiges of life are nothing if not a nightmare symphony. They are the cries and creaks that trigger the most primal part of the mind to want to run to and help, in the same manner a mother arcs at the distress of any child. And yet it was the thought of her children that ensured Sansa made no move; the reason her natural compassion retreated and her learned impassiveness prevailed. Her heart hardened, swift to granite, at even the passing potential of her sons suffering in _any_ capacity.

She looked on with a demeanour employed by, and adopted from, her lord husband.

Satisfied in her horrible accomplishment with the Frey woman, Lady Catelyn turned her attention to Ramsay; her countenance becoming unbelievably ominous. There was no gentleness employed in the movement of the blade afforded to the bastard. Her mother struck forward and jabbed the beautiful little dagger into the man's neck, flicked her hand viciously and yanked it back again. If anything, Sansa thought it would lead to a quicker end, but until that time the entire assembly was audience to a horrible duet of _justice_... gagging on their own blood.

Lord Bolton sat unflinching between the grotesque throes of the closest people he had to family ricocheting on either side, and simply waited his turn. Though it would not be granted until there was no trace of life surrounding him, and he knew it.

The moment Lady Bolton stopped choking out her sickly wails, the Merciless Mother laid forth her instructions. "Hang her in clear view at the East Gate."

With that simple order the sagging body was dragged without ceremony to be hung.

When Ramsay quieted into death, he was strung up at the Hunter's Gate.

Sansa watched as her mother once again paced a circle around her prey, this time dragging the hem of her gown through viscous puddles of crimson until the weight of absorption pulled at her skirt like it was a grisly train. Again the group of captives watched until they were shifting and nervous; again Lady Catelyn waited until they were near madness before she stopped.

Once behind Lord Bolton, it was he who spoke first. "Get on with it, you cunt." There was nothing in the words, like his eyes they were tired and unfocused.

Catelyn stepped closer to him than she did the first two, and smiled. It wasn't something from her terrifying persona, it was the smile Sansa knew from her childhood. She had to look away so as not to taint the memories she held so dear. However, when her mother spoke, Sansa couldn't help but look back again.

As the men holding Roose Bolton pushed his shoulders to bend him further forward, Lady Catelyn addressed him in a kind, strange manner, and said, "Know that you die by the bones of the king you betrayed."

With her words, she clenched a vicious hold on the man's hair and, unlike the first two she dispatched with delicate ease, Lady Stoneheart took her tiny knife and began sawing into the neck of the lord she so hated. The lord who not only crossed their king, but killed her son, and took so much pleasure in her own brutalizing and humiliation.

This man would not die neatly.

Stoneheart was practically kneeling on his back, twisting and pulling her blade in no true pattern. Her fist would plunge into the meaty gore up to her knuckles. Even as the blood sprayed hot and wide, her hand did not stop its tireless jagged rhythm.

Lord Bolton had his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth bared. It was evident he held his breath to aim for death, but little daggers and large necks would always require the body to force itself to breathe.

When he did, it was brutal. At the same moment he gasped for air, he groaned or keened, or made to speak - whatever it was, it was made appallingly muddled by the fact the noise came from the gape in his throat not the mouth on his face.

Lady Sansa shivered.

Lady Catelyn did not hesitate, punching with her knife over and over, as Lord Bolton's life drained into a pool at his knees. He was motionless save for the savage blows her mother was inflicting.

As the horror consumed her, Sansa did not notice she was leaning on Lord Manderly with a progressively heavier weight. The large man said nothing, he did not offer even a look in her direction, he merely adjusted his stance discretely to accommodate her.

The bailey held no noise but soft weeping from the bound crowd, and the spitting ragged breathing of the Merciless Mother. When her hand finally came to a stop her arm was drenched past her elbow and the dead lord's head remained attached by the bone her little blade could not severe - though not for lack of trying.

 _They had to get an axe to finish it._

The statement bobbed to the surface, and Sansa was not at all surprised when that was exactly how Lord Bolton ended. His body was strung up on the King's Road just at the outer ridge of the wintertown, his head rested on a pike outside the King's Gate.

Lady Sansa was snapped out of her deliberate sedation and addled thought when she watched her mother meticulously clean and restore her blade.

Her words echoed nefarious and empty:

... _you die by the bones of the king you betrayed._

... _you die by the bones of the king…_

... _you die by the bones…_

And as her mother slipped the pretty little blade back into place at her breast, Sansa recognized with a sickly pang that it was _not_ the branch of a weirwood she cradled there.

It was her first child. Her son.

Her king.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

In the later part of the evening Sansa ventured to find and spend time with her great uncle. Her morning's company departed just as quickly as they arrived and refused any offer of provisions, citing that _gold is so rarely poisoned_. She found him well into his cups and sitting idle by the large round fire pit in the Great Hall.

Accepting his offer of wine, Sansa joined him as the dark descended the room leaving nothing but the glow of the flames to limn their faces - though neither looked anywhere but straight ahead.

Ser Brynden spoke a constant babble, telling her of her mother when she was but a girl running wild on the rivers. Of how she was fearless even as a babe, and disclosed nothing less than abrasive truths. He had continued, somberly recounting the death of Lady Minisa and how Lady Catelyn had changed abruptly, seemingly overnight, to fulfill her duty as the Lady of Riverrun.

As he talked and she listened, Sansa marveled how Arya was never truly compared with Catelyn Stark, always Lady Lyanna. But the truth of it was that Arya was just as much their mother as she was, perhaps even more. Most were easy to dissuade the notion simply because Sansa looked so much like a Tully, like her mother, but the matter of parental influence has nothing to do with markings and more to do with, as her husband often noted, the way one carries themselves. It is buried in actions and decisions.

When she left him, the Blackfish had talked himself sober and was falling back into silent reflection.

Walking to her chambers was a blur, being preened and dressed for sleep was nothing more than an exercise in detachment; for when her hearth was stoked, her bed turned down, and her body snugly tucked in, Sansa wept.

The Lady of Winterfell let the agony of rekindled grief and despair take her, quietly - not a sound escaping the covers and pillows she keened into.

Her mother.

It is so easy to give in to the prospect of vengeance when the blood to do so slicks hands other than your own.

What she had witnessed that morning was the brutal honesty of retribution.

The brutal honesty of who _she_ was.

If the vengeance she had encouraged over the years was fit for sound, it would be the wheezing, gurgling screams of those drowning in their own blood at her nod.

 _Gods!_

She was a passive murderer...

She would _not_ augment her support of the Brotherhood...

She cried all the harder.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lady Sansa glanced at the large double doors of her father's solar as they opened. She was waiting for Lord Manderly, but when Ser Brynden entered instead, she sat up taller and waited for him to speak.

"A party from the Night's Watch are here to claim the those who remain in the dungeons, my lady."

"I did not send for them," she said, at the same time she racked her mind for the information needed to make sense of the matter.

Her husband had been the one to sift through the scores of men and women held captive by Bolton for crimes ranging from treason and murder to serving a meal in a manner their previous lord found offensive. He had been able to wade amongst the offenders and divine fair judgment in the most efficient manner possible, but it still left the cells packed beyond their rightful capacity.

"No, my lady," the Blackfish explained, confirming her estimation. "It seems Lord Tywin was who sent word."

Sansa nodded, instructing, "Work with them. Find them food and accommodation for the length of their stay, but I want it ensured that every condemned man was given the choice of death or the wall before they are handed over."

"Yes, my lady, of course." Ser Brynden nodded back, yet remained in the doorway and looked set to fidget.

Sansa observed the man with mild concern. "What is it uncle?"

He smiled in his easy carefree way at her words. Almost the same way, Sansa noticed, he made to charm and enticed lords and ladies into his confidence. It was his trick to get her to smile in return - it never failed.

She grinned at his mischief and chuckled lightly, "What are you up to-" Her words died then and there; pebbles of conversation plinking and falling back down her throat, and she was left to force herself to breathe.

It only seems fair that the physical world would crash to a halt if one's past were to transcend to one's now.

...or simply walk through a door.

" _Jon..._ " It was halfway to a question and well past a statement - it was whatever her lungs could produce under the circumstance.

Sansa thought she was smiling, but didn't know. Her face had forgotten how to tell the rest of her what it was doing. But the boy she knew so long ago stood in front of her a man, a rougher image of her father, and he was smiling wide, her father's smile - she made her mind tell her mouth to reciprocate the pleasantry just in case she suffered internal mutiny.

Ser Brynden left without dismissal, quietly closing the door behind him and instructing her guards to allow no interruptions.

Inside the solar were two people seeing ghosts; who _were_ the ghosts of Winterfell, themselves. But visual markings were the extent of any comparisons, these two people were both a mixture of the equivalent and the antithesis of those haunted in their faces.

It didn't make the reunion any less intense, any less difficult. There was much to say, but with so many ends it was impossible to determine where to start. Thankfully, Lady Sansa knew to rely on what came naturally, what came without thought or effort: courtesy.

He politely refused her offer of wine and opted instead for water with lemon. For such a banal occurrence, Jon's choice of beverage seemed to encourage hesitation toward him, on her part.

Moments passed and smudged together to become uncomfortable silence, the two of them still standing in awe of one another, neither having talked casually to each other before.

"You…" Jon started nervously. He couldn't keep her eye, and Sansa found the idea of a shy Lord Commander somewhat endearing. Jon cleared his throat and tried again. "You have children now. I hear- I heard, I mean..."

Again it was awkward, but Sansa could see quite clearly that the boy she shrugged off as a child was trying so hard now as a man grown to engage her the same gentle way.

"Yes, two boys," she said, smiling in an effort to set him at ease. "Twins," she beamed, and was excited to see Jon smile back in the same fashion.

"You would be an amazing mother-"

"Jon, I am so sorry-"

They trampled over each other in words, but stood back a pace to digest exactly what each other had admitted.

"There's no need… To apologize, that is."

"I think there is, Jon." Her tone was steady, serious.

Jon lost whatever timidity was left in him. "We were children."

"I was there, I know how horribly you were treated by myself... and my mother." The last words were hardly a whisper.

"We've grown up, Sansa." Jon stepped closer, his kind smile widened. "If I can't forgive _you_ , my sister, than my experience has been for naught."

Sansa took a deep breath, smiling just as kind and just as wide. "Thank you," she breathed, as she bit back and swallowed the tears that were building.

Jon seemed to understand, seemed to know exactly what she was doing. If Sansa were to guess, Jon was making the same effort.

"Tell me about them," he finally gulped out in a squeak, laughing at his own pitch.

Sansa stepped closer still, laughing right along with him. She was still giggling like the little girl he remembered as she began, "Rykar, the youngest, has the excitable curiosity of Rickon and Arya, and the want to climb and find adventure like Bran." She grinned at her own telling. These were good memories.

"My oldest, Tysan, can toddle into a room and command every bit attention just by smiling - so much like Robb," she laughed light and pure. "Remember his charm?"

Sansa looked at Jon, made an effort and held him in her gaze. She hadn't realized she'd even looked away as she was reminiscing. He was grinning bright and wide, so much like their father, with the same shine in his eyes that Lord Eddard would get when talking about something or someone that made him happy.

"Oh, yes," he chuckled, "nary a maid was safe..." Jon stopped, sobering slightly, knowing the woman Sansa looked so much like would have scolded him for such presumption.

Sansa reciprocated the Lord Commander's sudden seriousness for a moment, then employed a softened look, speaking further to ease him again, "Even at such a young age, Tysan has a pensive side, so concerned with those around him. Very much like you, Jon."

The grown man in front of her transformed once again into the shy boy she knew as a child. The boy she treated so coldly, yet who would always greet her with warmth. The boy she saw as no more than a blight on her family, yet who would always invite her to join whatever fun was being schemed.

He was shifting his weight from foot to foot and darting his look to everything but the young woman that should have been his focus. Sansa took the last two steps needed to close their distance and draped her arms around his neck. Pulling him tight into her embrace, she spoke through the cusp of her emotion. "My children carry pieces of everyone I love, Jon." Her voice was rough with guilt and shame and remorse, and it was made more so by speaking into the heavy fur collar of his cloak. Sansa squeezed her arms around his neck harder and all but sobbed, " _Everyone_."

She felt Jon's hands grip into her back, like she was going to float away if he didn't hold on, and his head drop a little heavier on her shoulder. He shivered then, her brother, in her arms, and Sansa cradled his sobs before she'd ever heard them.

They stood there in each other's embrace for an endless time, weeping apologies and acceptances, laughing in one another's hair before crying anew.

It was then Sansa realized what children they were. _Still_. Whatever life separated her and Jon, they were no more than babes set loose in a world that fell upon them with sharp teeth and honed blades. They had both bled and suffered in a way that should never be known to the innocent. But she knew that was the way for most every child, and her heart clenched at the thought of her own.

What a grievous proposition.

Yet here they were, her and Jon, scarred and jaded, clinging and crying and laughing and smiling, _together_. They had survived. And sadly _that_ , that vile and vicious truth, _was_ the way for every child: you can only celebrate childhood if you're lucky enough to have escaped it with your life.

They separated again and stood at few paces away, mopping their tears and wiping their noses - laughing at each other for the trouble. When each were calm, Jon once again took a deep breath, and Sansa was able to discern, even in such a short time, that this is what he did before there was a question or difficult subject.

"Sansa." He coughed slightly to clear his words. "You should know that the girl wed to Bolton's bastard wasn't Arya."

His sister frowned slightly, not so much a look of sadness, and just nodded; neither did she seem surprised.

"You knew this?" Jon questioned, almost incredulously.

"Yes," she answered simply. Sansa would not expose details regarding her relationship with Tywin Lannister, no matter the ear.

"He holds a great amount of trust in you then." His eyes shifted over Sansa's face, a mark of his own intuition. Intuition that proved true when she did not question who he was referring to.

"I don't know..." She looked away, her brow slightly pinched.

"He must."

Opening her arms, Sansa swayed to indicate the land around her. "I'm... useful here."

Jon gave her painful smile, it was understanding and remorse in one tiny feature.

They fell again into silence, but this time it wasn't so uncomfortable. She watched as Jon's brow crumpled and his lips pulled thin, she knew he was edging toward something heavy. Something that weighed him down.

"They say the summer may last ten years."

Sansa huffed a light laugh, not as heavy as she assumed it seemed "The longer the better," she agreed.

Jon smiled at her in a way that stuttered her heartbeat, it looked so much like her father. But when he dropped the casual gaiety just as quickly, he became no more than a stranger.

"Sansa, it doesn't matter how long it lasts." The Lord Commander stretched his back and neck, tilting his head as he spoke, "As soon as the frost deepens and the first real snow flies, I want you and... and my nephew," he tried to lighten at the word, but simply couldn't, "to already be in the South. Promise me."

She laughed again, light and airy to lessen the tension, but it was thick around them and her instincts turned her icy. "Why do you want us out of Winterfell, Jon? Why are you insisting the _Lord of Winterfell_ go back to Casterly Ro-"

Jon lunged at her in such a frenzy, Sansa's mouth yelped before she knew she had opened it.

He held her tight by her upper arms and wore a look of both profound sadness and fear. "Not _west_ , Sansa!" he barked. " _South_!" His eyes traced back and forth over her face. "Get your children, go to Lannisport, secure gold and ships and you sail as far _south_ as you can. Somewhere without snow and ice - understand?"

She didn't, and it must have read plainly on her face because Jon calmed, his eyes stopped their rapid tracking, his grip eased and his hands slid down to take hold of her own. He raised them, turning as he lifted, and kissed each palm before gently letting go.

Stepping back from her a pace, Jon spoke in a tone of undeniable affection. "I love you, Sansa." His words resonated as awkward, he'd never said them to her before. "If you have any love for me, you will promise to heed my wishes." His face once more relaxed his mouth remained serious, but the lines that made him look severe were gone - the ghost of her father was staring at her, sedate and full of warmth.

"You're scaring me," was all her body could breathe out. She sounded like the same frightened little girl he would find under the furs of her parents bed after a story from Old Nan.

"You _should_ be scared," was Jon's own shaky reply. "Promise me," he pushed.

In the man's eyes Sansa read warning. It was a message she was experienced in, one of many that Lord Tywin exhibited over the years. One of many she knew to look for in anyone, and knew to recognize even without the advantage of a verbal cue. It was a clue, she acknowledged, that if left ignored would either work against her or take with it opportunity, or both, and judging by the terrifying passion in which Jon was imparting it, only a fool would ignore such insight.

"I promise, Jon." It was a whisper, but it was fierce.

Her brother sagged like he'd aged five decades in that one moment, but he smiled again, that coveted prize. Sansa knew that to whatever it was she had just complied that caused her to earn _that_ from him was surely something significant.

"How long are you here?" Sansa spoke for no other reason than to push back the dread and silence that was becoming constrictive around them, but as the words tumbled, she proudly felt it was a rather profound question.

Jon smiled once again. "As long as it takes to secure new brothers from your dungeons."

It was Sansa's turn to smile. "I'm afraid you will be detained until those men have had their plights sufficiently reviewed."

A slight wave of confusion washed through Jon's mind - the letter from Lord Tywin assured him the necessary litigation had been performed. It wasn't until he looked squarely at Sansa that he saw the glimmer in her eyes - it was the same mischief Robb was capable of, reflected in the very same shade of blue.

He laughed then, loud and unbidden. A sound that soothed and mended, helping to tack closed some of the most painful of fractures.

They would have their time, his sister would see to it. It wasn't a cure, but it was an opportunity to encourage healing. To encourage the familiarity that should have been the most natural of bonds between them.

It was a beginning.

...

..

.


	25. Spring V

...

..

.

It took four full days until Lady Sansa could afford Lord Manderly the time he had requested prior to Jon's arrival. He assured her apologies were misplaced, offering his lady understanding instead of consternation. Though as they sat together in a solar Sansa could hardly think of as hers, speaking to and resolving current inventories and land matters, Lord Manderly bluntly interjected the truer reason for his requesting her time in the first place.

"Your brother, my lady," Wyman started, shifting rather easily in his chair. "Rickon - I believe he lives."

The large man said the words like he was relaying a store counts, or the details of a petty quarrel between tradesmen tasked to the rebuild of the castle. Lady Sansa immediately withdrew. Her countenance became stony, any outward demeanour toward the lord sitting across from her matched her physical rigidity.

"My brothers are dead, my lord," she said with all the warmth of winter. "And your jape is in poor taste."

"No jape, my lady. I sent King Stannis' Hand to search for him," was his unflinching reply.

Lord Manderly sat, convinced in his truth, searching Lady Sansa's eyes for a sign of trust - a sign that she in any way believed him. Long tense moments slunk by while she scrutinized him, assessed his every feature, disassembled every statement and confidence he had ever given her. Lord Manderly knew this time was as best as any to lay his tale at her feet, he had no other recourse but to sit in silence, open and unguarded, and let her pick his sincerity apart.

There was nothing in the man that told her he was lying. No muscles that twitched, his eyes didn't look away, nothing in him garnered attention to insist Lord Manderly spoke anything but out of honesty. Lady Sansa had a moment of dizziness; first Jon, now Rickon. If she allowed a flood of hope to envelope her she knew it would be her downfall.

Gods, but how she wanted to be washed away.

Her approach to this information, this tiny grain of triumph and jubilation, had to be treated no differently than anything of impact presented to her.

Sansa began slowly, "When Stannis' man finds him-"

Lord Wyman did not fail to notice Lady Sansa said _when_ , not _if_.

"-you must not bring him here, you _must not_ establish him as Lord."

Wyman felt the sting of the girl's presumption, and immediately let his gall speak on his behalf. "You've certainly been moulded into a Lannister, haven't you?" he judged. "Need I remind you that here in the _North_ , the right of succession falls to sons, to Starks, _not_ who has the most gold."

The fat lord knew his error even as the words fell out of his maw; the woman sitting across from had grace of blood, not wealth. Her muted agitation only confirmed his recognition.

"Do you think Lord Tywin secured Winterfell out of _romance_ , Ser?" she questioned, her tone so flat it cut an edge, and finished, "As a prize for his _wife_?"

The words she chose were thoroughly caustic, but her overall demeanour never really changed from being accommodatingly kind. It was a curious puzzle to be sure, one that the older man could only envy, and not think to ignore.

"My husband fought, bled, and _removed_ the lineage of a house and its vassals for _his_ son to sit this seat," Lady Sansa continued. "Do you think one boy rescued from exile, Stark or not, _my brother_ or not, means anything to him?"

She had given him a gift with that statement and Wyman knew it. The information and opinion from her lips could end her life if used against her, and she handed it to him with the trust Lord Manderly had once earned and admired in Ned Stark.

"You must keep him safe, my lord," she said. "If not for me then for my father. Do not put my brother into the mouth of a lion for the sake of honour."

"If your brother lives, this is _his_ seat my lady." His tone was no longer accusatory, more beseeching.

"I do not dispute that, my lord, but he will die for it if _you_ assert _your_ ambition."

There was no room for voice in the quiet that enveloped the room. It was needed by each to measure, appraise, and tally the worth of information and the trust between them. It wasn't threatening, it was necessary.

After the passing of what could have been an hour, it was Lady Sansa who breached the silence with her soft, confident promise. "If my brother lives, and you keep him safe, there _will_ be a Stark in Winterfell. The North will be whole again, my lord - _that_ is what I work toward and sacrifice for, but it takes time and patience."

Wyman Manderly knew that what she was saying, with words and allusion, was truth. It would be folly to accept Tywin Lannister as a man of conscience. He swept the North from the lord who killed its king, and the Great Lion expected the North to pay its debt.

With a thoughtful nod to Lady Sansa, the large man pondered aloud. "Your seat is now the West, my lady. Even if Tywin Lannister dies, his bannermen would never agree to give up his son's seat in the North."

"His son is equally mine." Sansa smiled in the way the older man remembered of her when she was but a babe, and could not stop his own grin from growing in genuine accordance. "And I have changed _your_ mind, my lord."

Lord Wyman Manderly felt an overwhelming cascade of calm knowing he sat in audience of such a remarkable young woman.

"You make your father proud, my lady," he offered with a surprising amount of emotion.

The large man had thought his tears were dried and forgotten after the death of his wife; the death of his son reintroduced the wretched display when he found time to mourn privately. But this young woman, this progeny of a man he more than respected, managed to evoke a happiness he thought was equally dried and forgotten. And with its resurrection came the hint of tears, a direct reflection of that elation.

Lady Sansa smiled at Lord Manderly, her own eyes reciprocating a watery happiness. And for the first time in more years than she cared to count, she knew in her bones that her world, her north _and_ her west, would one day be hale and contented.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She said she would sleep on the journey, but there she was awake and alert. Every breath and heartbeat accented by the swift thump and push of each swell the Sunset Sea had to offer.

With every passing hour turning to days and days that disappeared into moons in Winterfell, Sansa felt more and more of herself fading along with them. She ached for her children. She ached for the companionship of her husband; and before she could make the effort to investigate the exact impact that particular truth meant she had settled her expectations with Ser Brynden and Lord Manderly, and made her unexpected departure.

Instead of leaving the way she came, Lady Sansa arranged a truer, albeit riskier route. She had initially intended to make the journey on land, but her great uncle struck down any mention of the King's Road. Her mother would surely kill her at the chance, or bargain her for Tywin, _or her sons_ , and Sansa steeled in her acceptance of the older man's counsel.

Lord Manderly worked magic of some kind, levered favour without her knowledge and chartered one of the lowest, longest, fastest looking boats she had ever seen - not that her knowledge of marine transportation was extensive. It was a long-ship, like the Ironborn raiders, but it was stripped of everything pertaining to war, everything heavy, and it made the vessel all the faster.

When she made to leave, it was evident her party of one handmaiden, four sentries, and over thirty grey and gold clad Lannister soldiers were _not_ traveling to White Harbor.

More magic.

They made their way to Torrhen's Square and, after securing one of the swiftest, cordial feasts and local introductions she had ever been party to, continued down the waterway to Saltspear. Waiting for her there was a burly northern captain wearing seal skins and a beard she was sure repelled water as easily as his garments, who ushered her and her entourage onto the northern built, and manned, boat.

"Seems most forget we have just as much wood and water as the rest of 'em, m'lady," Captain Tavver had smiled at her, knowing her question by merely looking at her. "She's fast," he declared proudly. "Not even squid can catch the Baikal. No worries, Lady Stark, she'll see you safe at your Rock."

"Thank you, captain. I am in your debt," Sansa whispered in an air of awe. That she was to make it to Casterly Rock in lesser time than she had planned was a warm and generous revelation. She felt safe with this man, and for the first time in long time she let her adapted tendency to control her surroundings drift away as quick and easy as the ship itself sailed.

They had given the mainland a large berth to better ride the air currents and to avoid any trouble born of the Iron Isles. And true to his word, Captain Tavver delivered his precious, unannounced cargo to Lannisport in just shy of a sennight.

They arrived in the deadest hour of night with nothing of a moon to speak of or guide them. The weather had changed abruptly as the long ship coasted inland toward the harbour, and by the time the boat had been tied to the quay, the sky had opened up with rain that was unseen until it hit you.

Sansa's greatest effort lay in controlling her excitement once they'd made landfall. Regardless of the weather, regardless of the hours still needed to travel inland then up the lengthy incline to the castle proper, she had to hold back the small flickering burn of elation so it would not become incendiary - transposing itself to impatience. By the time her small forward-party met the first gates of Casterly Rock, the rain had ended and the messenger sent ahead of them had successfully relayed notice of Lady Lannister's presence.

Her arrival was nothing grand, nothing planned even, and she knew she would have to explain the reasons for it to Lord Tywin sooner rather than later, but in her ascent to the nursery none of that mattered.

Sleep addled and groggy handmaids rushed to their lady as she walked the well lit corridor with a single minded agenda. Her wet outer cloak was peeled away as she moved; it was a testament to the efficiency and ingenuity of the women she entrusted with her care that they knew not to ask Lady Sansa to stop or change course. They knew her mission and were not going to impede it.

The entourage fell away by increments the dryer and closer to Sansa's destination they became. By the time she pushed open the heavy door to the sanctuary she had been craving for more than half a year, Sansa was alone.

Leaving the door open behind her, Sansa stopped to gather herself. She stood at a physical and emotional threshold, and it took every thread she was composed of not to come apart now that she was finally there. Taking long paces toward the two high-sided beds, set so close together they were touching, she could feel the fabric of herself start to unravel. She felt starved. Emaciated from missing her sons and gaunt from missing her husband. Three entities that gnawed at her with a hunger greater than any lack of food. And when she peered over the edge of Tysan's bed, she let out a silent sob of relief.

She was once again sustained.

There below were her children. Her boys who entered the world together still managed to sleep by the pair. Rykar had been scaling the confines of his nighttime gaol well before she had left, and it seemed that instead of fighting it, the decision had been made to prevent injury and assist with his escape.

Rykar was curled into his brother like a vine. His head was at Tysan's feet and their arms and legs were twined in a manner that defied logic.

Sansa gently raked her fingertips through her eldest son's soft auburn locks, then with that same touch removed the bare foot of her youngest from where it was mashed into Tysan's face - not that he was perturbed in any way by the offense from his younger brother. Her fingers danced from one boy to the next, just touching them. Moving through gold curls and waves of fire, down cheeks coloured a shade of pink that can only be found in the great depths of sleep. The loving touch of their mother traced toes and ankles, and tenderly unfurled tiny fingers so she could count them.

One such fist was found clutching tightly a sword sewn together from only the finest swathes of material and stuffed with something soft, and Rykar would no more relinquish his cushy blade than he would wake up to greet his mother.

Sansa laughed and sniffled at the same time, and hurt all the more. It was as though she had been gone a lifetime.

The ache of missing them had been buried so well and for so many moons while she was in the North, that at the passing of their nameday Sansa woke from a dead sleep, gasping ans choking as the confines in which she kept that burden had decidedly cracked. The pain it once held firm seeped out like clawing tendrils, suffocating fingers that forced her to physically move away from it, to flee and seek reprieve.

To seek _them_. Her sons. The balm to tend her fissure of misery.

As she looked at her children now, she knew it would take more than a political advancement for her to ever leave them again. Even if her lord husband demanded it of her, she would rail against his command with her refusal. Her twins, her boys, _her life_ , were a year older then when she had struck north, and the amount of innovation and progress they had achieved in their lives since her absence already bound her with an unrelenting guilt.

 _Never again_.

Sansa halted as she made to sit in the rocking chair Tywin had waiting for her when they first arrived at the Rock. It was a grand thing, large and comfortable, easy to sit and sway with two babes in time to the sea that could be heard through the open windows. Across the seat of the rocking chair was what looked like a heavy, cumbersome blanket. However, draped there so haphazardly was actually a long, black and crimson cloak.

Tywin's cloak.

Sansa smiled.

A light shuffle of feet from behind caught her attention. At the same moment she turned to address the noise, she noticed the turn and departure of a tall figure at the doorway of the nursery.

The more delicate sound of approach was one of her sons' nurses, who in turn bowed in greeting to her, then whispered, "My lady, we weren't expecting your return."

Sansa turned back to the two sleeping treasures as she spoke lightly, absently. "No. I assume you were not." Turning her head to the young woman no older than her, Sansa smiled as she proceeded, "I couldn't stand to be away any longer."

The nurse offered a pensive smile. It was something knowing, perhaps between mothers, or perhaps simply common sense. But as the girl made to leave, Sansa drew her eyes back to the cloak on the chair and made to quell her curiosity.

"Was Lord Tywin present tonight?"

The nurse stilled and grinned once more. This time it was an expression of pride, if Sansa were to guess. "My lord has been present _every_ night since his return, my lady."

Sansa listened, and ran her fingertips over the cloak's seams and embroidery closest to her, and as the nurse continued speaking, she wallowed in the nuances of the familiar tactility. At the same time, she held at bay a shameful impulse to run into their bedchamber and wrap herself up in her husband's robe.

"Lord Tywin seeks them," the nurse continued, her eyes flicking to Tysan and Rykar, "in the time after their bath, as they are being put to bed."

"Of course," Sansa chuckled, then inclined her head to encourage the girl to keep going.

"He talks to them, my lady," the girl giggled, returning her attention to Lady Sansa. "Lord Tywin sits in that chair and addresses them as though they were proper lords." The nurse immediately looked away, abashed and afraid. "I know they _are_ , my lady," she nervously whispered. "I apologize..."

It was a blunder her husband would never tolerate; it was a twist of words Sansa hardly noticed.

"It's quite all right," Sansa soothed, trying to lighten the mood. "Please tell me he hasn't decreed taxes from them yet."

The nurse smiled and looked up once more. "Not yet, my lady, but they wait until their father finishes his speech then babble right back. It's the funniest thing - they have an entire conversation like that, of nonsense, until the children talk themselves to sleep."

The young nurse once again giggled softly, and Sansa felt an overwhelming sense of anticipation in what she was about to be told.

"Sometimes," the nurse mused quietly. "Sometimes my lord is the one talked to sleep, my lady. More than once we've found Lord Tywin asleep with a little lion tucked in each arm."

The anticipation Sansa felt thawing in her belly wicked through her. It spread a feeling of such contentment she felt fit to weep for no given reason other than that brimming warmth embracing her.

Regardless of whether her husband had initially sought the company of their children out of obligation toward her, it was obvious he found something in the practice that compelled him to continue - every night. She didn't care what it was, or that she was not involved in its inception, what mattered was that her babes - and yes, Lord Tywin - were prospering from it. And she would help to ensure that singular measure remained habit.

Sansa smiled, focused once more on her children, and spoke in a kind of hushed dreamy state. "Thank you."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin Lannister stood as his wife entered the large lord's solar of Casterly Rock. She approached with steps that could be described as hurried, excited even, but his rise was not for the tact of decorum. Rounding his desk until he was leaning back, his knuckles white at the grip he held on the edge of the burnished wood top, Tywin looked at the happy young woman with eyes like razors and the bodily presence of a man wont to harm.

Sansa smiled at him all the while treading closer, and Tywin felt cornered. He felt more than that, of course, but it hit him with such a force, the impact made everything except sharp waves of ire undecipherable.

She stopped more than a pace away. Sansa may have been absent for moons, but it made her comprehension of Tywin's behavioral nuances no less ingrained. His abrupt departure from her bed in Winterfell sprang forward, and Sansa realized his behaviour then was more than his usual fickleness, that his anger now was not the kind he usually forgot and never mentioned again. In light of that, instead of carrying ahead with her greeting as she had planned, Sansa waited.

Her steadfast patience had always rewarded her, even in the most unlikely of circumstances, this was no exception; it was her husband who ended the impasse.

"I was expecting a raven summoning the children, not your person."

Sansa quirk her brow in confusion. "Summon the children?"

It was like he didn't hear her question, he just kept prattling on, angry and distracted, "You didn't have to make the journey. I would have sent them."

"Tywin..." She stepped closer, her concern becoming apparent.

He snapped his eyes at her then and snarled low, "Don't think to patronize me, girl-"

" _Tywin_..." She _was_ concerned. This version of him revoked his own natural poise and made him seem ungainly.

Lady Lannister made a gentle reach for her husband and it was as if she were about to slit his throat. He grabbed her wrist in a manner he hadn't in ages, with a grip meant to control and demean. But she was no longer the girl with fear and tears in her eyes.

No, the woman in his clutch was intrepid.

She grimaced at the pain and growled through her teeth, "You're _hurting_ me." Her own confusion twisted itself into a base-burning anger, but mostly she wanted to know what was wrong with the man in front of her.

Lord Tywin stared at her, his eyes burning in impotent rage.

Sansa had the inclination to feel amused.

He sneered at her, his whole face shifting to accommodate his hate. " _Why did you come back_?!"

He flicked his eyes, so tormented and loathing, directly at hers. It was like she was reading a book - words dancing clear and unbidden - and Sansa knew her lion was broken.

Hurt and shattering.

 _This man_.

This great man with _so_ much, yet so little. In front of her stood a man so rich with gold and power that he crumbled knowing the only thing he ever truly desired was dignity.

And he had _none_. Not one fraction.

But _she_ did.

Sansa possessed the wealth the Great Lion envied, more so she radiated it. It oozed out of her with every word and action, but her husband had only ever appreciated it. He could have claimed it for his own - taken her treasure and squandered it.

But he didn't.

He let her keep it, and instead, with enough distance and time between them, convinced himself to resent her for possessing such an exceptional quality to begin with. The emptiness of the trait he so coveted was made even more apparent and intolerable by the act of her arrival. He never expected her to remove herself from the North. He painfully came to terms with letting her go, only to have her breeze back into his life in order to flaunt that which he would never have - _her_ included.

She was taunting him.

 _The cruel malicious thing_.

Tywin's gaze flicked away, well past her, his vicious clench still held on her wrist. Sansa took her free hand and squeezed her own grasp around the chin of the man who seemed to despise her. Her nails dug little white curves on either side of his mouth, and Sansa used the distraction to force his attention toward her.

"I didn't come _back_!" she seethed, all wrath and resentfulness. Sansa could feel his jaw clench as his eyes narrowed, and she watched as something curiously resembling defeat came to rest in them. The grip on her wrist loosened, something like defeat, and it only compelled her to tighten the one she had on his face. She shook that same grip with every word spit at the man before her. "You... _old_ _fool_!"

Three words snuffed out Tywin's animosity with no effort, like it had never been there to begin with.

She hurt him, she knew.

She meant it. It was necessary in order to dig him out of the petty furor he was buried in.

His eyes were no longer livid, no longer burning; his features softened like that of a child. Tywin was waiting for her to strike the final blow, to end them, _end him_ , but what was worse was that her husband looked as though he had been expecting it. And it was _that_ knowledge that prevented her from faltering, prevented her from succumbing to her disposition of wanting to bow and submit and augment herself for the benefit of others.

For the benefit of Tywin.

Sansa no longer dug her nails into his flesh, but cradled it with her fingertips. The grasp was light, yet he followed her tug to lean closer, regardless.

Everything about his wife was fire. She scorched to the quick of him and kept going. His face was close enough to hers that Tywin could smell the elements on her; like she bathed in the sky of the North and slept in the cradle of the Sunset Sea. His wife was an ethereal plane that existed overtop his own narrow world, and she was about to remove that part from him altogether. The anticipation of such an amputation was dreadful, it stirred in him the kind of fear he knew he would be lucky to survive.

"I came home, Tywin."

Her words didn't make sense though. His wife surely said she was _going_ home, and he'd misheard. He opened his mouth to cast her out with whatever ferocity he could scrape together, but was shut down with the sound of her voice once again addressing him.

This time louder. This time without the possibility of misunderstanding.

"I came _home_."

Lord Tywin could do no more than blink stupidly at the creature he towered over, that held him rapt at her every word and inclination.

 _...and he was truly hers._

He watched her head tilt minutely to the side, as though in question, and felt her soft fingers slowly brush their way under his chin and down his neck.

Tywin closed his eyes and inhaled slow and long through his nose as Sansa's fingers stopped their journey at the top of his collar. Her fore and middle fingers curled themselves between the lush fabric of his doublet and course unshaved skin behind it.

Elegant knuckles gently pressed into his throat and the old lion swallowed involuntarily.

"This ends. _Now_."

Her voice seeped through him, crawled into his ears, to his mind and flickered there. It was when he truly registered her words that he was able to look at his wife once more.

She gave him his own command. A command hissed at her so long ago. One she embraced despite its venom.

"You trust me or you don't, my lord. There is only one choice, and no middle ground." Her face was wiped of everything save seriousness. "If your trust is something I have not yet earned, I ask you tell me and I will gladly take our sons and leave."

Tywin Lannister had never been a man to take kindly to ultimatums or intimidation, but this was something entirely different. This was a negotiation of emotional veracity in which there was no place for conniving arbitration.

It should have been the simplest task to tell his wife the truths she was seeking.

It should have been even easier to hide behind his ire and let his irritation speak for him.

 _Anything gained easily has the highest of prices_ , and Tywin knew his soul could no longer pay the toll of living without her.

Her husband was in caught in a whorl of turmoil, like a wounded animal. Such as a lion that has been hunted for too many years, Lord Tywin snarled and paced and swiped at those close to him with deadly claws; all the while limping and bleeding.

His struggle was plain on his face.

Sansa's fingers shifted to lay against the side of his neck, twisting her palm upward, she allowed her thumb to sweep idly along his jawline. The rasp of his unshaven stubble loud between them.

"Did you truly expect me _not_ to return?"

Tywin's brows pinched low and deep on his forehead, it wasn't a look of suspicion more than it was a look of boyish insecurity. "Why would you?" he asked with an edge of petulance.

Three words. These held so many questions, so many uncertainties. So many hopes. Sansa couldn't think or do much more than stare in something akin to wonder.

When she failed to answer him, Tywin fell back on close-minded supposition. "You can't tell me Winterfell is not where you would prefer-"

She cut him short, her words each their own accusation, her hand tightened minutely on his jaw, blue eyes burning just as hot as green. "What's there for me, but ruins of a place I once knew and memories of people I will never see again?

"I will dedicate myself to the betterment, rebuilding and ruling of the North. I will always love the North, it will always be a part of me. But my _home_ is with my family, Tywin. And my _family_ is not in the North."

Of course they weren't. His wife had endured each parent and sibling, in one form or another, die around her. He sobered at her words. His eyes focused, _finally_ , sincerely.

Sansa presented a soft smile at her husband's wash of stubborn, brittle understanding. Blinking slowly at him, she leaned forward purposefully, gently bumping the length of her body against his.

"May I come home, my lord?" The whisper was loud in the somber atmosphere.

His countenance was severe, but his touch was amazingly delicate. Tywin slowly wrapped one arm around her waist, keeping a tender hold on the wrist he'd punished with the other - his thumb drawing careful little circles - and gently pulled his wife against him.

Other than his deepened breathing and the occasional throaty growl, the old lion said nothing. Curling his shoulders, Tywin nudged his face into her thick hair and rested his mouth on her neck, on the silky expanse peeking out above her high collar. It was an act of bliss he dreamt of when she wasn't near.

He nodded over and over again, speaking hoarsely into that sanctuary of skin, "It's yours, my queen."

Sansa laughed, and for him it was a sound that set him free.

" _Ours_ , my king."

She could feel him smiling into the column of her throat; then, at once, heard a rumbling that started deep in his chest only to bubble over his lips.

Lord Tywin held his lady flush, held her tight.

Her lion was laughing with her.

He felt weightless in his joy, in their joy, and it began to frighten him.

Joy bred complacency, and complacency was naught but death...

 _Joanna_.

The insidious pull of bleak gravity tore away in him again, trying to hollow him, trying to leave nothing more than a husk.

 _Sansa_.

Tywin notched a tighter hold on his wife - _his wife, his wife, his wife -_ and nuzzled into her neck, then up to her ear. There was no trace of mirth in him by the time he dragged his jaw along hers, his side whiskers snagging loose strands of auburn as he journeyed. He pulled his head back but kept her body intimately resting against him. _Oh, what relief that brought_. Lifting his hands to cup either side her face and neck, Tywin marveled once more at the woman in his possession.

Lord Tywin was vaguely familiar with beautifully frightening realizations, the ones he knew would inherently change his life.

This was one of them.

Sansa had always been.

Since the moment she had been pulled into his world, into him, when she fearlessly spiraled through her pleasure at his touch and unknowingly dragged him along into a new existence, he knew.

Tywin had always known.

The old lion could do no more than stare and breathe.

Sansa observed and concluded.

Using her toes, she pushed up and elevated her upturned mouth to his that was inclined. Her lips simply grazed his, a feather's touch, over and over again sweeping back and forth until her lion retained nothing of resolve.

At first, he did no more than lean his mouth onto hers. His wife didn't cajole or pressure her want, she allowed him the choice. It was more minutes than were rightly appropriate for him to hold her static, on her toes, his thumbs caressing lines over her cheeks, but his mind was only permitting flecks of solace and Tywin was at its mercy.

It seemed hours, but the two entities in the room prickled heat between them that refused to diminish under the scrutiny of time. And yet it seemed in only an instant the clunking shallow hurt that had burrowed deep into the lion's chest caved in upon itself taking with it the tiny space his conscience had allotted for repose.

Tywin angled his mouth against that of his lady and could feel her open a fraction for him, inviting him in. His throat purred, his lips twitched a curve, and he gladly took her offering.

The caress of her tongue welcomed him.

The twist and pull of her fingers in his doublet anchored him.

The radiating hum of her need embraced him.

The shift and grind of her body seduced him.

Absolutely.

 _Yes_ , sang bold the thoughts of Lord Tywin Lannister, _We are home_.

...

..

.


	26. Truth I

...

..

.

Tysan found his father standing in the lord's solar, next to the open doors of the balcony. He was reading a letter and, the boy was sure, listening to the Sunset Sea, to the song of her waves. Perhaps committing that soothing pulse to memory, he thought. For his lord father was preparing to leave for the capital and would undoubtedly need that kind of calm.

Upon his approach, Lord Tywin looked to acknowledge his son, yet remained impassive and went back to reading.

There was nothing hostile in his father's gesture, nothing ill said. Tysan well knew the message he was given and, unlike his brother, usually had the patience to see it through. He simply and quietly walked to his place next to the desk, a spot that had been his for as long as he could remember, just before the chairs, where his shoulder could lean on the wood and he would not be in the way.

The desktop was as full as the little lion had ever seen it. There were piles of large parchments stamped with the Hand of the King's red seal and stacks of tiny missives - there must have been a hundred of them - with golden wax meaning they were from his lord father or his lady mother.

Tysan let his mind wander to fill the time and it was in his distraction that he found unease. The very reason he sought his father to begin with.

After a time, Lord Tywin folded and set aside the missive he was reading and swooped down, picking his son up in a quick and gentle motion. It prompted Tysan to squeal - wearing the same smile that made his mother beautiful. The more serious son was troubled and the equally serious lord knew precisely why.

Tysan's father did not smile a lot, though he knew when his eyes were happy. At that moment, those eyes that looked identical his own held a gleam much like his mother's when she would tell a story - a quiet excitement of sorts.

The old lion set his cub to stand on the great wooden chair; not quite eye level, but it would serve. "Tell me, young lord," Tywin began, pulling back a small distance and making an effort to be severe, "Where is a man's strength?" He held his arms out slightly from his sides and stepped closer to his son, his mouth twitching as he watched the boy narrow his eyes to think.

Tysan was satisfied he had the answer and reached up, placing a small hand on his fathers' bicep. "It's here and..." His bright green eyes flitted around to find his next answer, finally resting their gaze, and the point of his finger, on the side of the room at the nook where his father's sword and armour had been polished, oiled, and set out for use. "...and there!"

When he turned back to his father for the approval Tysan was sure would be evident, he was disappointed to find the look that meant he was wrong; it was close to the look that meant he was behaving badly, but not all the way angry.

The little lion pulled his hands back and scrunched his nose in frustration. "Where then?"

Tywin leaned down to his son, taking his hand in a gentle grip he placed the hot little palm above his forehead, on his bald head. His son giggled. Even when he flicked him a stern look, Tysan giggled even more.

The old lion felt a wave of happiness ripple through him.

"What's in here?" Tywin applied a tiny amount of pressure to accentuate what he was referring to.

Tysan became very solemn, trying to mimic his father. "A... your mind," he concluded, smiling when the elder nodded and kept his hand where it lay on his father's head - it felt cooler than he thought it would be.

Tywin took his son's other hand and moved closer, crouching and bending, in order to place it in the center of his chest. "What's in here?"

His face was beside his son's and he could not help but inhale deeply the distinct catch of childhood. Jaime and Cersei's was so long ago, his own longer still... Again he pressed the small hand onto the place where he wanted his son's attention.

"Blood!" Tysan's excitement lasted only a breath. He knew immediately the guess was wrong by the growl beside his face and thought fast to correct himself. "No..." This time when he spoke it was little more than air, because it was not nice to yell in his father's ear the first time. "Your _heart_." Tysan whispered those two words like they were the greatest of secrets and listened to the hum of approval. He smiled wide; he liked knowing the right answers.

The old lion stood to full height once again, his son's hands falling away from where they were resting, and raked his fingers through the thick auburn hair atop the boy's head. It was a habitual action, something he simply did without thinking; a subtle affectionate gesture toward both Tysan and Rykar and, of course, towards their mother.

He focused on the child in front of him, standing tall on that chair, his shoulders back and rigid. What a proud boy he was. Quiet and calculating, yet clearly imposing in his nobility - a rarity in anyone, unheard of in a boy of six.

"While I am away, young lord," Tywin said, tone and posture built of command, "I will be entrusting you with an important task."

Tysan stood up taller and wore his serious-lion face. This was the first duty he had been assigned - and that it was assigned from his father made it that much more important, which meant it should be addressed as such.

"Yes, my lord," he nodded as well, for good measure.

His father narrowed his eyes, like he did when he was talking to his bannermen, like when he was ordering his soldiers.

Tysan held his breath.

"You are the oldest, Tysan, my heir and future lord of this castle. While I am away, it is your duty to protect your mother," the old lion's voice changed. Nothing hesitant, the nuance barely noticeable, save for someone close to him - like his son, "even from sadness."

The order seemed easy at first, then, as Tysan thought about it, it became somewhat daunting. It was what his father did, after all. It was what Ser Royene, Ser Sutter, Ser Lanning, and Ser Wellson had done since before he was even born - and _they_ were the fiercest knights he had ever seen.

"Father," Tysan's face pinched in thought and worry, "I- I'm not... big enough... to protect her."

Lord Tywin's face softened as he regarded the little lion and it took away the enormity and weight that was pushing his son into the ground; such an important task on such small shoulders.

"Where's your strength, young lord?"

It took only a moment before Tysan was pointing at the center of his own chest and the top of his head - and smiled a little bit when his father nodded in agreement.

"You don't need muscle to protect her, boy."

His father was right. He had heard mutters about how his lady mother was made of ice and snow and steel. And even quieter whispers, the kind of whispers made by those who truly think they are alone, about how his mother carried a certain strength greater than his father.

"Is mother the strongest girl you know?" It was asked before the words were given permission to leave his mouth, and Tysan steadied himself for his lord father to change his face and talk to him in a way that made his belly feel sick.

Lord Tywin contemplated for a moment before looking at his son squarely; a subtle smile slid across his mouth and he could see the happiness start to resurface in the boy.

"She is the strongest _person_ I have ever met."

Tysan thought about that. Thought about how the words fit with each other, because his father sometimes did not say things plainly, and when he understood what he meant - that his mother was stronger than all the bannermen of the West, stronger than all his father's soldiers, even her own shields - the little lord smiled back.

The next moment Tysan was being lifted down from his perch. He thought his father was asking him to leave, but before he could turn, the old lion looked down at him, extending his hand.

It took a heartbeat or two before Tysan understood what his father wanted. He did not much hold his hand inside the castle, only when he took Rykar and him outside - to Lannisport, or a closer castle, to a tourney, or the like - and even then they were mostly in the care of their mother, or knights, or nurses. However, when they were alone, when his father would walk them along the sea, or show them the stables, or walk the piers, he would take a hand of each of them. Sometimes he held too tight though, like he and his brother would accidentally fly away.

Whatever the reason this time, Tysan decided it did not matter. He grabbed his father's hand, looked up at him, and smiled once more. They did not walk far, only across the room to the heavy and locked door that was sunken behind a long tapestry depicting lions jumping at birds in the sky and chasing stags and wolves and… and… well… everything.

Tysan liked that dark little space, it was a good place to think. Consequently, it also meant that sometimes he heard things. And it was hard in those instances to keep it to himself - though he did, as he knew his father and mother would not be happy he had hidden where he should not have and listened to things not intended for his ears.

Tysan's thoughts were interrupted by his father letting go of his hand and the eventual sound of the locks, the ones that made the door heavy, rattling and being worked open. He had never been through the door - he had never seen it open - and he found himself excited by the adventure.

Lord Tywin growled as he pushed the door open with his shoulder, and addressed his son in the same manner. "Stay here."

His father's boots made soft clicking sounds as he walked away.

All sound was forgotten when his lord father heaved apart great curtains opposite the entrance. They were larger than the tapestry that blocked the recessed doorway and dark red. The windows they covered were equally large and let in so much sunlight, Tysan had to raise his hand to shade his eyes from the stabbing rays of warmth.

"Come."

It was an automatic response to his father's command that his legs moved, and all of a sudden Tysan was in a smaller room with a large table on one side and another heavy-looking door on the other.

"This room will be yours one day," Tywin said as he approached the inner door.

Tysan noticed the hefty steel key in his father's hand, and also noticed the five keyholes on the heavy door - four at each point of a diamond, and one in the very middle.

Looking over his shoulder at his wide-eyed child, Tywin beckoned him with an arch of his brow and a curl of his finger.

"On which side is this lock, Tysan?"

His father was pointing, and the little lion held out both of his hands, palms down, and made L's with each thumb and forefinger. It was the way his mother taught him to tell right from left - one was backwards, the other was his left hand.

"Left, my lord."

"And this one?"

"The bottom."

His father did not ask after that, merely pointed to each inset lock he wanted named.

"Top... Center... Right."

Once the points were identified, Lord Tywin stepped back and away from the door. Tysan looked to him, first started by his father's abrupt pause, then shuffled around a little bit to help hide his sudden confusion. It didn't help matters when his father held out the steel key as though give it to him, but he accepted it anyway. Wrapping his small hand around the gift, Tysan was not surprised that it had the weight he'd predicted.

"I want you to open this door," his father said.

Already facing the door again, the boy's tone was edged in wonder, "Where... Which one do I start with?"

"Lions bound to Casterly Rock."

It was all that was said, and Tysan scrunched his face up again, more so, into a child's version of incredulousness. However, when he looked to his father, he saw a stern look and a raised brow.

 _A puzzle!_

Tysan thought hard, turning back to his challenge.

 _Lions bound to Casterly Rock._

 _Where is Casterly Rock? West._

 _But west isn't one of the directions he asked for… left, then bottom, then top…_

The little lion jumped in his excitement, his father scoffed at him – but it was not an ugly sound.

 _Lions… Left._

Tysan slid the key into the left lock and had to use both hands to turn it. It took an anchoring adjustment of his feet and the best growl he could make before the key budged and made a satisfying _thunk_ as it turned.

Removing the key, he positioned it at the lowest one.

 _Bound… Bottom._

Again he turned the key, grunting at it in the process, then moved on to the next.

 _To… Top._

He was on his toes, stretching to turn the key, his knuckles clenched white on each hand on either side of the key's end-curve until he felt a large, warm palm wrap around them, giving the leverage needed to make the turn then it was gone.

 _Casterly… Center._

 _Rock… Right._

At the sound of the final lock giving, Tywin waited for his son to remove the key, took his empty hand, placed it on the handle with his own just above, and pulled.

The inside of the room made Tysan gush out his breath. It was large and dark, and when his father took a lamp inside, he was stunned by the stacks of gold and jewels and parchment and boxes… He wondered if that was where all the riches of the Rock were stored... It was amazing.

"Tysan, go stand at the table."

It took a moment or nine before his father's voice made sense, and another twelve before his feet unstuck from the floor and allowed him to move. He could hear his father moving things in the treasure room, and it felt like forever before he came out again. And, strangely, what he held wasn't so much impressive as it was interesting.

It was a wooden box; sturdy and tall. Its height more than that of both he and his brother together, Tysan thought, and about as wide as himself at the shoulders. His father laid the interesting box flat on the table, the ends of it jutting past the edges.

Lord Tywin once again scooped up his son at the pits of his arms, this time sitting him on the edge of the table top.

Tysan was glad of it, because he was now high enough to view whatever lived inside the long heavy box.

The little lord could clearly see wavy lines of gold sunk into the dark wood, and gold fittings keeping it closed. Though there were no lions on it, and _that_ notable discovery caused Tysan's mouth to twitch at the corner in equal parts anticipation and suspicion. He watched as his father pressed his thumbs into two of those fittings and beamed in excitement when he heard the sound of the mystery unlocking.

Tywin swung open the hinged top of the long box, making sure to watch his son as he did so.

He could not speak. Tysan sat blinking at the contents, trying to remember to breathe... It was the biggest sword he had ever seen... And it was beautiful.

The hilt and pommel had lions - no, that wasn't right - they had _wolves_ on them. Like the sigil of his mother's house. Wolves carved into the thick cross-metal and wolves' heads coming to life from the each end of the hilt.

Tysan leaned down to look at the massive blade itself. It was the width of both his hands - _together!_ \- and dark grey, like thunder. Up close, there were marks and swishes inside the metal. The little lion squinted one way and saw faces, then tilted his head another way and saw animals. It reminded him of the liquid rainbow he had seen in the run-off water at the laundry, but _this_ was in steel.

And, as with most any child, Tysan made a reach for the object that held his curiosity. A reach that was as mesmerized as it was unthinking.

A reach that was ended before it began, when his father's hand stopped him.

"This is the deadliest weapon you will most likely ever see," Tywin warned. "It holds its edge without the need to be sharpened, and it can cut through most plate..."

The deep voice droned on for a while, and when he looked toward the source, Tysan knew he was being told something important.

" _This_. This is what is what you will give your mother if she's sad, and I'm not here. It will help her."

Tysan considered for a moment, then asked the most obvious question. "What if she's not sad?"

"Then it will be given to Rykar the day he becomes Lord in the North. This is the great sword of the Stark family, your mother's family, and it will go to Winterfell with him."

Another consideration, another _obvious_ question. "Will I have one?"

"No. The Lannisters once had a great sword called Brightroar. Nevertheless, it has been lost for generations."

"So... Rykar will have one and... and I won't?"

Tywin looked at his son, watched him consider what was fair and what he wanted. The eldest was never the one to act rash or unplanned; he sought the problem openly and worked toward solutions.

"Tysan, look at me." Tywin hunched at the shoulders to look at his son squarely. "No, not at the wall behind me, _at_ me. Good. Tysan, there is enough steel here to make _two_ swords. A twin set. One for both you and your brother. The choice is yours."

Tysan's mouth gaped like the fish that splashed around in the tidal pools Jaime showed them in the lowest caverns beneath the castle. However, his mind was moving at the ferocious pace of any six year old:

 _The sword is incredible, and it's unfair that Rykar gets to keep it and I get nothing._

 _But it's also the thing that I'm supposed to give mother if she's sad and father isn't here._

 _But she'd be happy if there were two of them, wouldn't she?_

 _But father said the sword belonged to the Starks, the North. So Rykar would only get to use it, not keep it, not really._

 _And mother says the North remembers - surely it remembers such a wonderful sword._

Tysan blinked at his father and smiled lamely; crushed as only a boy could be at such a sacrifice. "No, my lord," he sighed long and loud, "it should stay put together."

Tywin found himself biting down with excruciating effort so as not to fully roar in laughter. His son was so much his mother in that moment - _unnecessary dramatics_. He also knew what it was like to have decisions mocked at that age, especially by one's father, and he would not do that to the boy. Instead he nodded at Tysan in the same way he did to inform him of his appreciation in general. It seemed enough. His own eyes peered up at him and the little lion nodded back.

Lord Tywin returned his mother's - _not his brother's, not yet -_ sword and reversed the locking pattern to secure the inner door.

With a gentle, firm hand on his head, Tywin moved his son through the heavy door leading back out to the solar, and after locking the door behind them once more rested his fingertips on Tysan's crown, leading him toward the large desk.

When they stopped at its side the warmth in his hair left too, but the old lion did not move. Looking up, Tysan saw a tightly woven gold chain dangling from his father's hand. He didn't have it before and must have picked it out the treasure room. The Great Lion threaded the intricately woven finery through the curled end of the heavy steel key and, without a word or any indication of intent, slipped the chain over the head of his heir.

"You know your duty," Lord Tywin said and abruptly turned to take his seat behind the desk.

The boy, the Red Lion, as the bannermen of the West liked to call him, could only think to squeeze his fingers around the cold metal and nod dumbly at the retreating back of his father. Tysan observed from where he stood his father sitting in his great chair, watched him get comfortable and waited as he always waited for _his_ turn to sit.

Tywin's mouth curled minutely at the edges when he finally settled and leaned back. It was a silent cue his sons knew to mean they were welcome to join him.

And without hesitation, Tysan gripped the arm of the chair and a handful of his father's doublet to help pull him up. It had been a long time since his lord father assisted either he or Rykar in their climb, telling them that if they wanted to sit with him, they had to figure out how to achieve it on their own. Tysan had learned to climb carefully after the first time he stepped somewhere that made his father angry enough to lift him with one hand and order him to leave. But this climb was easier, his arms were stronger now, his legs were longer too.

The little lion fit into the pocket of space at his father's side like it was built for him.

Sitting high on Tywin's thigh, his son would always press himself just under his arm, just enough out of the way that he still had use of it and was unimpeded in doing his work.

He liked spending time with his father this way, and Tysan knew how to be close without bothering; to work _with_ his lord father, not against him - the latter of which always meant being sent away. This time, though, as he curled himself into the large warm torso he so much loved, the boy could not hold his tongue.

Or his fear.

"You'll come home after..." Young Tysan Lannister could feel himself start to shake and fought the scrapes in his throat and the water in his eyes with every bit of lion and wolf that made him. "...After you kill the dragons, right?"

He could not look up. He did not want to see his father's disappointment at the emotion that ate him up, or the anger at him knowing about the dragons when he shouldn't, so he just clung tighter if only to fight the inevitable: that Lord Tywin would instruct him to leave.

The boy felt his father shift, the arm he was situated under moved, and he was anticipating this was when it would pluck him off and tell him, _If you're going to be a nuisance, you'll do it elsewhere_. But his lord father was leaving soon for the capital, to fight, and Tysan didn't want let go just yet. He would fight as well. He would beg Lord Tywin to let him stay; he would promise to stop bothering and talking... He'd _promise_! He fisted more of the black doublet's fabric to anchor him against the strong arms and strong hands about to pry him away.

However, in this instance, those strong arms and strong hands pulled him in closer, centering him. Tysan was at such a loss at the gesture, that the first sob to wrench out of him was as much a surprise as it was a relief. "Right?" he wept into his father's chest.

When there was no answer, he gathered all the voice a boy needed to better reiterate a question. "You'll come home, _right_?!" it came out as a screeching, pitiful wail.

Once again the son's query went unanswered - vocally; rather, those strong arms and hands held onto him tighter, fiercer. Tysan could feel his father breathing heavier and quicker, just like he was, and it scared him.

" _Right_?!" he bawled, beseeching an answer of the man he clawed himself into. The man who had lifted and tucked the scared little boy high on his chest and under his chin. The lion who wrapped himself around his cub in order to protect him from the monsters that at one time only lived as pictures in books.

He could not stop crying. His father was not angry, so he abandoned the will to even try and end his tears. Folded in on himself, his knees near his forehead, Tysan was getting hot and sweaty, although he did not want to move. He didn't want anything in fact - a duty, a key, a room full of gold, or even a castle - he only wanted his father.

Wave after wave of terrible sadness and the agony of fear tore through his little frame. Yet he was held together... with strong arms and strong hands.

"... _right_?" the cub whimpered, his tide of emotions at last ebbing enough for the word to escape.

Still, no answer was granted. Tysan wanted to feel frustrated by the silence, but he was moving now and it was too distracting to concentrate on both.

Curled up into the nest of his father's chest and arms, the little lion barely distinguished the subtle swaying movement the body around him was providing. His lungs no longer hurt for air, they took deeper and deeper breathes, his eyes no longer leaked out tears, but they were heavy though - waterlogged, most like.

He felt his father press his mouth to the top of his head and thought it strange, because he only did that at bedtime, and even then it occurred less than sometimes. And as much as that act was distracting, it was what was happening along with it that both lulled and bewildered him.

Lord Tywin was purring nonsense while rocking his son.

His mother hummed, never his father. It didn't matter, however, because it took away the fear. He could see it, the panic and dread, pulling back from where it had been dwelling in his mind, behind his eyes. It was getting smaller because the humming was chasing it away. The Great Lion was chasing it away.

Tysan's muscles, and the ability to keep himself awake, were well spent. The room began to dim and Tysan was adrift in the comfort of his father's affection. When the black of sleep consumed him, so did the contentment that a man who could scare off nightmares could scare off anything.

 _Anything_.

Even dragons.

...And come home.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The moment Tywin Lannister knew he had been betrayed was the moment he watched Ser Loras Tyrell of the Kingsguard blindside his Lord Commander. Ser Jaime was knocked so viciously to the ground, at such an unexpected angle, he lost consciousness almost immediately.

There was no pause in Lord Tywin. He did not hesitate to bellow his unflinching command to decimate anyone wearing sigils and colors of the Reach. His own blade took only a heartbeat to lodge itself in the neck of the man who, for years, swore himself an ally.

Lord Mace Tyrell wore his armour as decoration, and his son's hasty move to expose their treachery served only to expose his own folly - being thrown into combat at the shoulder of a proven warrior, not a mantelpiece.

The other lord was on his knees, choking on blood as Tywin moved on to the next.

 _Let him die slowly,_ his malicious thoughts rang. _Let_ _him die shitting himself_.

Tywin's focus then turned to the mere babe who thought to harm his son. He waded through leather-clad savages and plate-clad soldiers to meet his target, his blade acting as an extension of himself every step of the way. He was built for blood and the taking of lives; his frame long and lean, his arms like the cracking of a whip.

He had the boy in height, and while Tyrell's youth garnered him speed it was no match for the experience of anticipation. Tywin gave him not one fraction of ease or rhythm. Ser Loras leaned back to gather his bearings and determine a better strategy, and the old lion followed him there and kept going. Lord Tywin practically fell inside the reach of his opponent, it was an error associated purely with youth and ignorance. And once there, the Lion of Lannister unbridled his fury. He struck the pretty young man, not with his blade, but with his fist - his steel-wrapped fist.

The first two strikes of his gauntlet dislodged Tyrell's helm. The next half dozen found them on the ground. What transpired after was a haze of rage, a mist of blood, and the soul-thrumming crack and give of the other man's skull.

The old lion's blood was thick like honey, crawling its way through his veins, pounding in his ears. It was the only thing he could hear when he made his way to Jaime. His first-born son was not dead. The wound on his head, where it had met the smooth cobbled stone of the entranceway, was bleeding as those wounds were apt to. Nothing worse as far as he could discern. But it was when he made the initial heave to pull his son to safety that he felt the cold press of steel worming under the edge of his helm, at his own neck.

"I'll ask only once for you to yield, my lord. The battle is over. You have lost."

Tywin knew the voice. A deep steady cadence. _Barristan the Bold. Barristan the Brave._ Call him what you will, the knight was an efficient killer regardless of fanciful monikers.

Tywin stood slowly, his eyes fixed on the man with his life dangling at the tip of a sword. "I won't leave my son to the whims of the primitive." His voice was calm, yet firm, his blade at a down angle as a sign of entreaty, but not given over - he had certainly not surrendered.

Ser Barristan looked at him with a kind of understanding the old lion could only respect. "The Lord Commander will be attended to as his station deserves. You have my word, Lord Tywin."

Moments stretched as the two men simply regarded one another. It was not a battle so much as it was a test - of loyalty for the most part. Tywin had known this man longer than most and their impasse played as a silent question to the knight whether or not he would afford him an escape, or at least the opportunity to try for one. Or if he would suckle the vows pledged to yet another regent. This time a queen he followed home.

Slight pressure on the blade at his neck, digging a little deeper, and the hot trickle he now felt rolling under his armour was Ser Barristan's equally wordless answer.

"Will he die all the same?" Tywin's voice was as hard and cold as the steel that marked him.

The courteous knight did not so much as blink at such a bald question. "That's not for me to predict, nor decide, my lord."

Live to see another day or die where he stood. That was the choice presented to the lion, but his arrogance only allowed for the immediate considerations of a man set to scheme and adjust his place in a world that was coming apart around him. Without looking away, Tywin ever so slowly lifted his own sword and pivoted the hilt in his hand to offer the pommel to the knight who held him at bay.

Seemingly simultaneously, his proffered weapon and the one poised to kill him were removed. The Great Lion also felt something shift inside him, something ominous, something that devoured his earlier conceit. A black, oily thing that settled in the pit of his stomach.

He _knew_ the fight would be at the castle; that all of King's Landing would burn before flame would dare lick that ancestral home. They had the advantage, they let the Targaryen whore fight her way from the shores, uphill, through the city, and further to the entry of the keep.

The gamble paid dividends, the fiery beasts came nowhere near the castle, sparing the men waiting. Though, what he had not known was that an even more dangerous animal lived within his ranks. A pang of uneasy revelation sent his thoughts toward the fields of Northmen and men from the Riverlands that rallied for their king, who were under the command of Lord Randyll Tarly.

It was an acknowledgement that carried vaguely to the welfare of his daughter, more of the child she had borne the man.

He then thought of home.

 _Home_.

 _Sansa_.

The mass of greasy unease roiled where it lay at the center of him.

 _Patience_.

Patience like hers would allot him answers.

Looking to survey the scene around him, Tywin could see the unsurely mix of barbarians, sell swords, and those wearing the sigil of Highgarden, quickly dispatching any and all in Lannister garb.

"Come with me, my lord." It was a command from one man to another - respectful, tactful, kind even, though a command nonetheless.

And with it, in that very space of time, Lord Tywin Lannister conceded his own command - of men, of land, of life - was at an imminent end.

...

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	27. Truth II

**This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence related to torture and sexual assault. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.**

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"They've not yet found Genna."

Ser Kevan huddled close to talk to his brother. Not that he had any space to leave between them, he did so merely for the privacy he was used to ensuring.

They had been locked in what Kevan could lightheartedly guess was a storage room of some sort. Not in a cell, black or otherwise, nothing underground. The room was long enough, from door to wall, for each of them to lie down - one man's head at the door, the other's at the wall, their shins and feet clashing in the middle. However, to sit width-wise would see difficulty in properly stretching one's legs.

The only concession to the cramped quarters was a series of small slit windows. There was no glass, just open air, and although they were well above a height to reach or see from, they at least afforded the brothers a concept of time - in days and hours... and now the entire turn of a moon. The angle of that precious sunlight also provide positioning, of which Tywin knew them to be just adjacent the Throne Room, the noise of constant footfalls merely confirmed it.

"Sansa won't allow her to be found." The old lion sounded weary, though not yet broken. Both he and Kevan had been dragged daily from their hovel to either the Throne Room or the Map Room, and given audience with the new queen and her rats. The Imp once again wore the chain of the Hand and, ironically, took his place as the biggest rat of them all.

Tywin had only seen Tyrion once, right after the fall of the capital, but it was enough to know his wife and their children would live. For as much as he hated his father, the Imp was undeniably in debt to Sansa. It was a life debt, the value of which was on par, and then some.

The Great Lion peered at his companion. At least he was being held with his brother, which was some comfort.

"I can only pity the North if that's where she's sent her. Ty, can you imagine our Genna amongst the savages?"

Tywin scoffed, then sobered. "I can imagine her protecting her children by any means possible - from both a mad dragon-queen bent on Lannister blood, and a mad feral-woman bent on Frey blood."

Kevan nodded his solemn agreement, then looked away from his brother, studying his hands, his face etched with whatever it was that was troubling him.

The older Lannister could only wait, he knew if pressed the younger would snap shut and leave him to wonder.

It was some minutes before the view of his hands became monotonous to Kevan.

"Tywin, Sansa fought to have my family spared."

It was not what he was expecting, Tywin's gut instantly clenched. "At what cost?"

"I.. I don't know."

"Who told you?"

"It was the Imp-"

"You've seen him recently, then?" Tywin cut in.

"No. It was… a raven, my lord."

His gut now curdled. "From _where_ did the raven come?"

There was nothing but the sound of steps muffled by the door and a slight whistle of the wind cutting through their slivers of windows.

" _Kevan_ …" Tywin very rarely took a tone of warning with his brother, his right hand. The last time he could remember doing so was just after the death of his first wife. "Where's the _fucking Imp_ , Kevan?"

Clearing this throat, the younger spoke quietly, "At the Rock, my lord."

"Have they... It's fallen?" Tywin was unaware his voice had pitched and cracked.

Kevan shook his head slightly, speaking to save his lord anxiousness, "Not from what I gather - the missives give the impression of treating. You shouldn't worry, Ty-"

" _Do not_ presume to tell me how I should think, _brother_ ," the old lion's eyes flashed with what Kevan knew was fury, "You know just as well as I do how this ends."

"I'm _not_ presuming, Tywin, I hold no illusions. _Till my dying breath_ , remember?" Kevan looked at his brother, and for the first time in his life he felt cold in his shadow. Too much was at stake to risk sabotage, unbeknownst or not, fueled by the best of intentions or not. "She is negotiating, they are listening. _Do not_ interfere." The younger was on the verge of anger, his voice deadly - arching a little louder as he progressed, "I will be damned if I walk to whatever misery is to end my life suspect of the welfare of my family."

Tywin looked at his brother, long and intense, not moving, not talking, his face a mask of nothing.

Until he laughed.

The sound was not disparaging, nor was it grand. It was uncharacteristically pleasant, with a hint of approval.

Kevan eyed him cautiously. He had never seen this raving man before. No... not raving per se... not the man per se... it was their entire reality that was rather absurd.

"Arsehole," Kevan breathed, then joined the nonsensical mirth that must only come to those living their last days.

Tywin murmured softly, tellingly at the end of his joy, "She will see them safe, Kevan."

"I'm not the one doubting her." It could have been accusatory, but it wasn't. "She's too valuable, Ty. Why did _you_ want her?"

"She was the key."

"She still is, my lord," Kevan said gently. There was a lull amidst them then, something pensive, before Kevan asked, "And why, my brother, did you keep her?"

With the question came a look that was carefully cunning. A look that was rare in the younger Lannister; one used only when effectively pulling truths - even from his siblings.

It took a moment for Tywin to collect his thoughts. His brother knew him better than all but Sansa. He also knew the answer to his own bloody question, and Tywin had to consider exactly how to convey that type of annoyance in words.

"Arsehole."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Yet another day was lapsing into yet another night when Tywin was dragged from his closet-cum-cell. The very act, that he was not walked, but overpowered and yanked down a corridor, told him this would be no conventional interrogation.

He was pulled through the empty Throne Room, to one of the smaller meeting rooms behind the dais. And when he saw it occupied by only the Queen and her savages, his suspicion was confirmed. But the old lion was only allotted a moment to spare any estimation of what was to come, when a commotion tore the collective tension to ribbons.

Randyll Tarly marched his way to the Queen, and to look at her Tywin knew this appointment was both demanded and unexpected.

"Lord Tarl-" Queen Daenerys broke off her own words when the lord in question smoothly bowed to a knee and all but flung a crumpled cloak at her feet.

She looked confused as two of her horse-guards leaned in poke whatever the gift was with the tip of their curved blade. With a muttering of primitive language, one of the guards kneeled, pulling at the cloak to find an end, and from there tugged at the expanse of material in order to find the hidden prize.

Tywin knew exactly what had been presented. The chilling quench that seized his spine dissipated only when he saw that the size of the clump was nowhere near his heed. Although with that deduction he also knew the contents.

A final flip of fabric allowed a tiny curled fist to drop into view. It was bloodied. As was the arm it was attached to.

There was no noise from the queen, no gasp of horror or even jubilation. She merely crouched to the small body and pushed aside enough of the cloak to see the face of the child.

"Your own?" The inquiry was made in the direction of the dead babe. Taking another heartbeat of contemplation prior to standing and addressing her glower directly at Lord Tarly, the Queen motioned for him to stand as well.

"I didn't want it. What good was a whore's daughter to me?" Tarly grouched, finally at full height.

"That daughter was _yours_ also, my lord." The queen spoke carefully, yet it was easy to see the rage simmering beneath her veneer.

"And still of no use to me... other than a sign of my fealty, Your Grace."

"You chose the same tact the Lannisters did to prove themselves loyal to the usurper. Did you think this would appease me?"

For a moment the gruff lord's eyes went wild, darting here and there, unfocused and looking for a way out, looking for something completely unnatural to the man: how to exist in the same room with a woman who had far greater footing than he.

"I didn't kill the mother, like I ought should have," he reasoned. "I left her for you."

"Yes, Lord Tarly, and she will be tried for the wrongs she has perpetrated. Tell me, of what guilt was a babe of three found?"

"A daughter is of no use-"

"Much the same as those under my rule who think to act recklessly, carelessly. Only to tell me it is in my name that they blunder - that it is for my benefit. My lord, it is _you_ who is of no use to _me_."

The silver-haired queen spoke in High Valyrian to one of her Unsullied, and though Tywin was unaccustomed to the language conversationally, he could pick out the general mood of her command. His face did not move, but his eyes squinted slightly at the edges as they would if he smirked.

 _Good riddance_ , he thought.

As a clutch of spear-carrying men descended toward Lord Randyll, Tywin watched the man pale. Tarly was shaded an ugly grey-to-green, and it was with great satisfaction the old lion witnessed the turnabout of such a traitor.

The great commander from the Reach put up little fight and was sent to the ground with two strikes from the murderous end of such a long weapon. Two strikes that were hardly seen - like lunges from a viper - but could only have severed tendons at the backs of the Tarly's knees based on the angle of the strike and the overall result.

The useless lord was then dragged away cursing, leaving only the bloody bundle wrapped in a green and gold cloak between Lord Tywin and Queen Daenerys.

The old lion thought nothing of the babe. Truly, it was not his concern. He could see his wife's disapproving face in his mind; _that's your blood_ , she would say; _that's your family_ , she would say. And though it was truth, Sansa's conscience held absolutely no sway in his conviction that _this_ child simply did not matter.

The Targaryen queen turned then to speak to one of her Dothraki savages. The comment was brief, and Tywin again found himself watching the action directly in front of him. The half-bared brute bent to the bundle and, with such careful grace that it genuinely took the old lion aback, gathered his precious charge gently and left the room.

"Your granddaughter," Daenerys said flatly.

And much like every other time Lord Tywin had been brought before her, he spoke not a single word to reply or defend or simply converse.

His silence was infuriating her. It was a comfortable advantage.

She wanted nothing of governmental secrets from him, or measures of security that may or may not hinder her reign. She wanted emotional reasoning as to the man he was and had always been - in relation to her father, and her family. In relation to his betrayal of them, as well.

However, his reasons were his alone, and the dirt-queen would obtain neither his rationale nor his justification. The simplest truth was that the events requiring such decisions were made because they were the correct action at the time, and if this so-called regent could see nothing but a personal slight then she was as ineffectual a waste as the rest of her family.

"Violence should be saved for those deserving," the queen added absently, sadly, before her demeanour became stiff once again.

In her eyes Tywin spotted it: her father. Not Aerys as a young man. No, this was the look of the Scab King, warped and delusional.

Without further word or warning, the old lion was shoved toward a pillar carved from what looked to be a solid slab of stone. It had two ornate sconces, one several hands above his head, the other mirrored on the opposite side of the column.

His hands were held firm as he felt his tunic being rucked out his breeches and up over his head. He refused to let it go, refused to let them separate the garment from contact with his skin - not wholly. It stayed bunched on his arms, and it seemed the barbarians did not care. They simply pushed it up out of the way onto his biceps, off his forearms and set to binding great lengths of leather strapping there instead.

Each of his arms were tied then pulled by their leads, made to embrace the girth of the column then wrenched upward as the ends were tied off to the sconce on the other side.

In the position he had been drawn and stretched into, Tywin knew he was to be fucked or flogged - or both. Neither was a tempting prospect. Though when the laces at his groin were yanked apart, and his breeches pulled down his legs, he figured the question was answered. More so when a coil of leather, this one not merely a strap, looped around his neck and tightened.

The old lion could feel the blood pooling in his face, reddening it in his effort to breath around the asphyxiation, and though his body heated as his muscles tensed, Tywin could easily sense the warmth of someone standing behind him. He could smell him there, all sweat and horse, and shit and leather. _The fucking savage_.

With a sharp tug on the leather noose, the old lion's head snapped back and collided with the shoulder of a large beast. At the same time, he was pressed bodily into the unforgiving pillar and experienced a blunt, hurtful nudge at the tight ring of his arse.

Whether it was a cock or fingers that worked to enter him, it made no matter, the event was vile.

Over the heavy grunts at his ear and the dry, arduous prods at his backside causing himself to squawk out his pain, Tywin could hear the formidable roar of the Queen. Her fury was palpable and Tywin thought it was because it was taking so long to rape him. But when his lungs were allowed air once again, the crush on his body lifted and the cur at his back stepped away laughing, he knew _that_ type of wretchedness would not be endured… at least not in her presence.

Although, once that particular offense had been reprimanded the Queen changed again, speaking in the barbarians tongue. It wasn't long before she laughed in the same manner the brutish voice did only moments before. And that, the lion could freely admit, was terrifying.

The young queen now sounded appallingly eager. So bent in her hate, Tywin could hardly anticipate her angle.

But there was one.

Vengeance, perhaps.

Intuition wasn't required to provide that particular summation only common sense. In a rebellion that found her kin in the minority, the easiest path in the aftermath would be to focus on the loudest songs and the grandest of stories. Yet to thoroughly hinge vengeance on that very principle would see this Targaryen queen eradicate almost every name in Westeros.

And to _truly_ seek justice for the wrongs she has interpreted, the full bloom of vengeance would require her to follow every branch to its eventual root - where her own dragon blood would have to be counted amongst that which should be spilled.

Convenience, most likely-

He heard tightly braided leather snap the air apart brutally before he even felt it land.

The impact was a thick line of burning pain starting at his shoulder and ending halfway down his back. This was not corporal flagellation, he realized. This was an outright whipping. This was not performed with knout or a scourge, but with a stock whip, and he had no time to prepare himself for the agony.

The blazing hurt caught his breath; snatched it away so that he had to chase it to get it back. But just as he regained it, the next lash struck the opposite side with a uniform fury.

He would _not_ give her what she wanted. He would eat the hurt and let the cunt stew in her frustration.

The next strike made him growl.

The fourth came with a trickle of wet, thicker than sweat and hotter than tears. He was not a horse and it was only a matter of time before his hide was made to split.

Sagging his head at the shoulders, he rooted for comfort in the tunic he held so dear.

By the tenth lash he was frothing through his teeth. His skin was hot, his muscles shivered, and the blood was flowing freely down his arse and the backs of his thighs. He pulled hard on his restraints just to feel something else other than the skin on his back rise and bubble.

Six-and-ten was when the numbness took hold. He was only aware of flesh tugging to shreds and the sloppy sound of leather connecting with the meat underneath.

Lord Tywin lost count after two-and-twenty. He was nearing the threshold to give in, to give this mad queen her due - that of his fear and anguish.

The lion tried to gather air so he could create a voice, a whimper, _anything_ , but was distracted. His vision swayed with streaks of light and dots of colour, and through the soup he could see her - his wife, his wolf. But she was not smiling to sooth his aches, nor whispering words to take him away from the monstrous rhythm played out on his body. The vision of her was all but a child, and, like him, she was stripped bare, held firm, and meeting the ruthless swing and abuse of a weapon built to wound.

He was suffering the same torment Sansa had, and he wondered with a horrible clarity how those blows had marked her though never broke her completely. A cool blanket resolve enveloped him then. His lady wife rescued the _Great-fucking-Lion_ from the brink by way of her own suffering.

How _dare_ he consider defeat when a mere girl endured so much for so long. How _dare_ he think to taint her strength with his weakness.

 _How. Dare. He_.

Tywin would endure. Tywin would come back, ever resilient.

Even though his lips were bloodied from biting back the pain, his mouth and chin slick with drool and vomit, the _Great-fucking-Lion_ forced his head to the side and his bleary eyes to focus on the cunt-queen standing and observing.

He smirked at her.

With the barest curl of his lip, he told her she was nothing more than entertainment to him. Insignificant and a failure.

The lion won. The dragon had been bested at her own game.

The rhythm halted then and Tywin was cut loose.

Although he was no match for gravity and slumped ungracefully to the cool marble floor. That soothing repose lasted only a beat before he was gripped tight and held upright by malicious hands on his upper arms and yanked yet again to his feet. But he could not find them. His legs were leagues away, and when he tried to place them under him, his tread slipped and smeared on that gloriously cold marble floor made soapy by his own blood and sweat and bile.

Movement was a blur. His breeches remained dropped, baring him to the ankles, adding to his many trips and stumbles. However, his only concern was the tunic bunched in front of him, now wore at his forearms. He hugged it to his chest like a babe with a toy, unaware of much else, until recognition crawled through the fog of pain.

The savages were dragging him up the steps of the dais if the Throne Room, to the throne itself. To that ugly iron chair where blood and rust were indistinguishable and the power it provided was perverse. And was spun around to view the hall he had known for more years than this new queen had been alive.

The old lion was tired. His lungs grunted in effort, his eyes were heavy, and all he wanted was to sleep and see her - _his_ queen.

Impact was sudden, and it wrenched a muffled curse from his throat. They threw him into that sharp, tarnished seat, mostly naked and severely lacerated.

Tywin hardly felt those new cuts before he welcomed the dark.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 _It is the sound of sparring that draws his interest. It is the sound of his children shouting in excitement that settles whatever debate is in him to follow those noises._

 _The training grounds are becoming clearer ahead of him, like out of the morning mist that gathers and rolls inland from the calmer shores of the sea. The noises are getting louder and Tywin feels a sense of anticipation. Like the children, but quieter._

 _In the tunnel leading to giggling boys and skillful knights, he sees a silhouette leaning against the hewn wall - far enough in the shadows to remain unnoticed, just enough forward to see what drew him there as well._ _She is unmistakable, even in the dark. Her hair is down and the plait reaches just above her arse. For a man used to the complications of the South, it's when his wife further simplifies the mundane that he is most taken._

 _He can see how Sansa has one arm wrapped around her, just under her breasts, and the other is bent at the elbow, her hand coming to rest at the side of her neck. She is completely enthralled with the activities in front of her and, Tywin thinks, he could have galloped past her without even an acknowledgement._

 _The lion comes to pause a few paces behind her, and from this new angle he can see his wolf tense and relax with every clang and rasp of steel connecting._

 _If he were the man he had been two years prior, his jealousy would have sparked and kindled at the notion of his wife viewing two young knights battle - regardless of the precious company they were entertaining. He would have welcomed the burn of hate in his lungs and the continually sought edge of relief in Sansa's reassurances._

 _His focus is brought back to the sparring in front of him and the two boys completely enthralled - for two completely different reasons._

 _The combat is a slew of thrusts and parries, of taunts and carefully played misdirection._

 _His sons, his young lords, are absorbing it all._

 _Although it is the one with the gold in his hair and the wolf in his eyes that stares, his body rocking and swaying with each movement of the men before him; determining his own strength compared to the warriors pitted against each other. Every thread and fiber of muscle and flesh is attuned to the craft of violence._

 _Although it is the one with the fire in his hair and the lion in his eyes that flicks his gaze from one man to the next, his fingers twitching as he easily anticipates and dissects the consequence of those same movements. When the knights stand again and set to spar once more, it is this son who asks the combatants to move slower; to allow him to see the nuances of their game._

 _There is a tumbling crush deep behind the ribs of the old lion, and for a blinding moment he fears for his life. But when the pressure lifts and the feeling left is contentment, Tywin knows what he suffered was pride._

 _The unguarded moment of adoration for his sons, these sons, leads to a wave of awful guilt and bitter remembrance._

 _Why is it he allows this of himself now, with them… with her?_

 _That awful guilt arcs and bucks itself into a morbid sense of betrayal. And Tywin has to place the palm of his hand flat against the cold rough stone beside him to keep himself footed. It has been years since Joanna's words fluttered inside his mind, and he can only hope he does not lose himself completely to what she has to say._

" _Love your children, my lion."_

 _The voice is like wind, traveling sure and all around him; unable to hold it in his hands, or in his ears, Tywin cannot even remember if the voice is her's at all. The ache in his heart has returned, but this time there is no contentment, no joy, only hurt and sorrow._

 _He straightens his stance and sets to leave when the clatter of steel yanks his concentration away from self pity._

 _The shorter of the knights as disarmed the other, whose sword is now strewn into the wood shavings and dirt close to their live steel and oiled and polished helms. Equipment that would never see the inside of a sparring pen._

 _The knights turn to their youthfully enraptured audience and offer to help them down from the tall scaffold where they had perched._

 _Rykar refuses in his charmingly smug manner, mid-scramble down the most precarious side of the wooden dowel structure. Whereas Tysan takes his time, still refusing, but explaining to the men that he had gotten up there himself - he could get down as well._

 _The tingling fulfillment is back in the Great Lion, little ripples playing outward from the center of him as he watches his boys._

" _Love your children, my lion."_

 _Tywin calms and leans again on the wall directly behind his wife. She is still unaware of his presence._

 _They both watch with an intent only a parent can possess; using their own periphery as a further protection, looking for threats and dangers outside the natural worry and care of their little ones._

 _Tysan wanders to where the practice blade lay ans stops, his vision continuing to garish helmet shining under the torches, very much an invitation for the perusal of the young._

 _The lord and lady of Casterly Rock witness one four year old using cunning beyond his years to engage men in tales of skirmishes and adventure, and the other using wisdom beyond his years to formulate and deduce a calculation known only to him._ _But it is as they are considering the eldest of the two they see him make a reach for the sword. Not the one that had been wrenched from the knight's grip during mock combat, but the deadly sharp castle-forged steel that laid polished and invitingly unsheathed next to one of the grotesquely ornate helms._

 _Sansa immediately moves off the wall and makes to step in, to vanquish the danger presented to their son._

" _Don't," he whispers._

 _He can see her, feel her, startle at his word. She has not noticed him at all since his approach and he can sense his wife's immediate unease - something he quells by slipping his arms around her and brushing his cheek down hers, to her neck._ _The effect is immediate, her body relaxes and her hands seek their comfort on the arms about her middle._

 _He whispers again, and this time he is so close he can feel her usher out a shiver of a different kind._ " _Just watch," he says._

 _Tywin's thumbs rub circles where they lay midriff. A gesture that has always soothed... Them both._

 _Tysan, supporting the flat of the blade on the thick padded sleeve of his doublet as his hand grips the pommel as best he can, crouches awkwardly toward the helm - almost losing his balance in the effort, standing again quickly to regain it._

 _The old lion squeezes the tips of his fingers into the gown of his wife, knowing she is but ready to rescue her child._ " _Wait," he murmurs into her neck, smiling at the shudder he feels everywhere he is pressed._

 _Their oldest makes another attempt to crouch, his endgame still a mystery, this time compensating for the forward weight of the weapon._ _The boy pauses to assess the helm and it seems like Tywin and Sansa both hold their breath for him. It's only a moment until Tysan Lannister slips the tip of the honed steel into a gap in the helms visor that seems visible only to him._

 _His son of four, Tywin considers, set aside his natural curiosity in order to find a flaw. And what a weakness to find, one that is both an advantage and an assurance of life._

 _Proud, indeed._

 _Love, indeed._

 _A smile widens on his face and it is Sansa's voice that now sails clear and unbidden through his mind._

" _How did you know?" Her question is not made in a state of wonder, but more a demand for the vital part of a riddle._

 _He huffs out a laugh, all air and playful indignation, and watches the muscles of her jaw bow and pull to what he knows is her smile._ _Cinching closer to the creature, the siren, that untucks from him things it took decades to stow away and hide, he breathes her in._

 _He lives on the air she gives him._

" _It's what_ I _would have done," is his answer._

 _His proximity is a boon to the young woman, and, instead of words, she nudges her backside onto the part of him that makes him heat and growl._ _Sansa looks over her shoulder at him, blushing pink even in the midst of her boldness. She is striking, his wife, in beauty and contradiction; equal parts pure maiden and wanton temptress._

 _Tywin raises one hand and gently tips her chin back, covering her lips with his. Her body is so trusting in him to keep her upright and safe; a notion that is without question. As he feels her arm thread up and around to take hold at his nape, his other hand remains at her middle to cradle her swollen belly._

 _The Great Lion deepens their kiss as he rubs the distended expanse of their child softly._

 _The life they made together._

 _Not for gain. Not for advantage._

 _Just for them..._

A firm hand Tywin recognized as Kevan's pulled him out of the heavy mist of sleep, and in stepping away from his dream he became steeped in his actuality: he was shaking. Not a tremble in his muscles, but an agony in his chest.

The Lion of Lannister was weeping. He could feel the hot line of tears down his face and the grit in his throat from sobbing.

"You were calling to your wife, my lord," Kevan whispered.

The dark of the room announced evening, but _which_ evening Tywin could not discern.

 _Love your children, my lion,_ fluttered in his ears and did nothing but confuse him.

" _Joanna_."

The eldest Lannister struggled to choke back the emotion that was riled from a dream he could no longer remember. _No, that's not right_ , his addled mind protested. That's not who greets him in sleep anymore.

Ser Kevan smiled in the dark, practically crawling on his brother, moving to rest his palm on Tywin's arm, away from the lashes that were searing hot on his back as his body fought to stay infection. "No, Ty," he replied gently, "Not Joanna."

Tywin nodded his understanding into his arms, into his tunic - balled up and used to pillow his head. An unseen gesture that was the only movement he could muster without cracking scabs open.

 _Sansa_.

The old lion sighed as his brother carefully dabbed a cool cloth along the burning edges of the worst of his lesions. _Wounded lions are dangerous_ , he considered, _but threaten the pride and it is the lioness that will bring upon that threat a thundering calamity of devastation_.

 _But what of both a wolf_ and _a lion? A threatening of both pride_ and _pack? That_ , he smirked knowingly to himself, _is a destructive weapon most unfathomable_.

Whatever was to happen to him, Tywin acknowledged, was moot. He was negligible within this new game, this twist of new players and divisions and consequences, but it was a route he had planned for.

 _Sansa would outlast them all_.

And with that peace, Tywin drifted to dreaming again, surrendering to the beauty of her, his wife... his wolf, his lioness.

Absolutely.

...

..

.


	28. Truth III

**This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence related to torture and sexual assault. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.**

...

..

.

Tywin was sat watching the queen pace and grumble, and rage and pace once again. From his place as the only occupant behind a large wooden table at the center of court, the monotony of her psychosis was becoming a bore.

"Targaryens ruled three hundred years in peace," she declared to the room.

And his game of silence was decidedly at an end.

"Is that what the horse-folk taught you?" the old lion scoffed. A casual act, like they'd been conversing on a regular basis. "Your education is as tainted as your blood. I'd say you need only look to the Lord Commander of your guard for the truth," Tywin jutted his chin toward the old knight standing sentry to the girl, then drawled, "But no, his purpose was to _protect_ your father's madness, just as he will protect _yours_." He leaned in slightly, as though to share a confidence. "I knew your father longer," he said, which drew in the queen's interest. "I was here when he raped Rhaegar into your mother."

Tywin's serious demeanor did not falter. Ignoring the agitated mutters around him, he simply flicked his glare toward Ser Barristan, drawing her gaze with it. The old knight wore a face that silently admitted what the old lion had spoken was indisputable.

Again canting toward his captor, Tywin said, "I am bound by no oath." Again his words charmed, seduced even amidst the grime of his clothing. "Do you want more truth, Your Grace?"

She came to a dead stop, standing static save the minute tilt of her head, looking at the man as though he were a meal, or a superior - _or perhaps an inanimate object._ Tywin could never be sure of the mechanisms within the minds of the mentally deficient.

"Don't think you came here as a saviour," he continued in light of the Queen's apparent enthrallment. "Your dragons are _not_ mythical, they have razed an entire city - indiscriminately putting innocents to torch. Who do you think the people will remember: the girl and her dragons that were set loose to kill them, or the King who was betrayed trying to save them?" Tywin's impassiveness was icy, a practiced detachment that was proving effective in distracting the Queen. "And, as you have found out, your pets are _not_ invincible."

The ridiculous woman-knight had destroyed the black beast nearly single-handed. She had perished for her efforts, but as he'd heard through the windows of his cell, out of the mouths of small folk milling around the castle grounds like welcomed vagrants, she had also made herself into a bloody song.

"You are a victor of opportunity, no more," he asserted, steely and cold. "Your strength rests solely in your numbers. Invading a land finally recovering from years of war and winter and still at a disadvantage is the most basic of strategy, and it makes you _less than average_."

He watched, satisfied when an angry red flush crept up her neck to the tips of her ears. Tywin remained serious and matter of fact, and said excruciatingly clear, "There is nothing great about you."

At that moment he thought about extinction - of a name, of a bloodline, of a species - and the fact that no matter the climate of demise there would always be rebirth, remembrance of some kind. That knowledge stole into him like a comfort.

And like most comforts, it didn't last.

When the queen dismissed first the entirety of the court, then her Lord Commander from the great chamber, Tywin knew to prepare once again for pain. He rolled his shoulders covertly, testing the thick pads of healing skin and the larger remaining scabs that wept blood and pus. He felt his ire stir.

It was in the middle of the day, in the middle of the Throne Room, and the old lion was still a man of little patience. Lord Tywin glared with an intensity that had the ability to destroy thoughts before they could be fully formed - the queen's were no exception.

"Do whatever it is you mean to do, girl," he kept his gaze locked on the young queen, "your company has become tedious."

He watched her peer over his head and nod, and before he could even look behind himself, he was seized roughly at the upper arms and lifted off his chair and his feet. Lord Tywin was being manhandled mid-flight when the Queen stepped down from her throne and, in the tongue of her barbarians, ordered to hold him still. She walked calmly to the older man and peered up to meet his gaze.

"Tell me, my lord. What kind of man condones the rape of a princess and the death of children?"

There was nothing outwardly apparent in the Great Lion, save apathy in its finest form; and when he failed to acknowledge her question, the queen asked another. "What kind of man holds no conscience for unnecessary death and encourages needless slaughter?"

Again her inquiry was met with silence, a stony gaze, and an air of triumph.

"What kind of man-"

"The same man you are trying, and _failing_ , to make yourself into," the lion purred coolly.

Whatever the Targaryen was expecting, it certainly was not that.

"I will _never_ be you!" screeched the Mother of Dragons, her outrage instantaneous.

Her anger was telling, and if Lord Tywin were the type of man who thought to proceed with even the barest hint of compassion, he would have pitied her in her madness. But he was not. And he did not. Instead he looked at her squarely, his face severe, addressing her in a tone to match, "And it will be _that_ which haunts you, child."

With a noise of utter fury, the Queen flung a command to her savages and Lord Tywin was off of his feet and hurled back lengthwise on top of the table he had been seated at previously. The breath was forced from him and it took a moment for him to regain his sense of direction. Although the first regained facet of his person acknowledged that heavy bodies pinned him down at his legs and shoulders.

Lying there, Tywin blinked in long lethargic movements, the pain along the skin of his back already something of the past.

He scoffed to himself.

In all his years living in that damned room, he had never once bothered to look _up_.

The ceiling was nothing short of magnificent. The tops of each column stretched in elegant arches, reaching to connect with their brothers. It was there, taking life from the marble itself, that he saw them. Dragons, of course, but also, just as proud and defiant and strong, were stags and wolves and falcons and roses and suns and spears and kraken. His mouth twitched. There, right in the thick of the menagerie, breaking free of the cluster, was his own.

The proud rampant lion, mouth open and vicious.

 _Hear Me Roar_.

Indeed.

He was brought out his unexpected reverie by the now calm intonation of Queen Daenerys, as she said, "Since you can't define what kind of man you are, Lord Tywin, I will spare you the variety."

He heard movement of the Queen's rags as she walked around, then saw a dark stumpy man waddle his way into the chamber in his periphery. The man was holding a leather roll whose contents distinctly clanked with a muffled metallic chime - and it took no estimation on the lion's part as to what lay in store for him.

Anguish.

He could not imagine what kind of torment he was about to encounter, held down at the limbs on a wooden table, but whatever it was, he knew it would not kill him. No, _his_ demise would be very public. In that fact he had no doubt.

The man's accent was some gods-forsaken lilt, but not so entirely indistinguishable that Tywin could not make out his question.

"Take ev'yting, Mudder?"

"No," the Queen answered immediately. "Leave something his wife can mourn."

Tywin went dizzy with a surge of rage that shot directly behind his ribs, though he did not move. Whether his anger was due to the whore mentioning his wife or the anticipation of the cruelty to come, he did not know. But as soon as the savages at charge of his legs tore open the laces and stripped him of his breeches, Lord Tywin felt a wave of queasy foreboding lunge beneath his skin, through his body, just as powerful as his ire moments before.

No, his entrails would not be hooked; his skin would not be flayed...

He thought of two small boys, then a set of golden twins…

His wife… His wives…

 _Gods_.

The rickety old man stepped into the vee the old lion's legs made as they dangled off the table and handled the soft cock found at the apex in a disgustingly rehearsed manner.

Tywin spit curse after curse out of reflex… and was ignored for his efforts.

Hands that were once holding down his shoulders shifted, and one thick forearm snaked its way under the old lion's chin. It trapped his head into looking nowhere but upward, and it was the removal of control, of seeing and observing, that caused Lord Tywin to breathe in ragged pushes and pulls.

There was a horrid pinch as something was tied tight to his flaccid cock, a weight of some sort that pulled the appendage up toward his belly and exposed his sac.

His breathing begun to hollow.

Shifting his hips violently, he threw the beasts off kilter, fighting against what he knew was inevitable. He felt a huge body drape over his middle, ending his struggle to move and beginning his struggle to breathe.

 _Oh gods!_

Another terrifying pinch out of nowhere, and he knew his testicles were tied off at the root.

 _Please… gods!_

Praying to those entities now was just as fruitless as praying to them before. Callous, not benevolent, an institution that whored itself to lure of coin.

 _Bastards!_

Over the sound of his heart in his ears, and the wheezing labour of his lungs, he heard the distinct plinking of tools being unrolled, sorted…

...Chosen.

 _No! Nonononono…_ He squeezed his eyes shut.

The first nick was a hot quick slice made with a blade surely razor-thin. There was no pain to speak of, not initially, not until the pulse of his own blood showed him deftly where the horrific ache was. The small man knew his craft and knew how to prolong the suffering; making many incisions in a procedure that could very well have been over in barely a moment.

Tywin felt a sickly-cold sweat bead over him, the pain of the tiny cuts burrowing to where he hid away from them in his mind. He began to struggle, frothing at the mouth. But even these movements were calculated to the old lion, thrashing his head, enticing the mongrel there to curl and flex the arm he had anchored around his chin and neck. He was manipulating the poor animal and it was a sin how easy it was. Tywin wanted blackness, wanted nothingness to feast on him, and he was almost there when the constricting arm was removed altogether - and so ceased the man and his knives.

Gasping for air, the old lion swore and burbled through his teeth, frustrated in his torture.

He heard the queen mutter in a tongue he could not care to name, then seemingly clarify in a language he had no choice but to comprehend. "No," she said. "I want to _hear_ him."

There must have been a silent command, some wordless communication between the gnarled bastard at his groin and the wisp of a girl who called herself his mother. For once again there was no hesitation of the metal scoring him, of the searing lightning agony that bit into him.

Tywin tried to concentrate. He tried to go away. But instead found himself staring with pleading eyes at the frozen exhibition above him. There was no help to be found there, in the symbols that marked the families he had, for so long, strove to sway and manipulate.

What a taunt it was.

With a final gouge a part of him was removed, and with it severed the last remnant of his restraint.

A bellow of scorching desperation echoed for a lifetime, dancing like a horrible prayer in and around the apathetic sigils in the heavens above him. Not a high-pitched sound of pain and distress, but a throaty roll of defeat. It was a noise that rattled Tywin's sternum and caused his voice to buckle painfully.

It was the frightening call of dominance finally, forcefully, laying down into submission.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Ser Kevan Lannister fought the dark to watch his brother sleep. The barbarians had drug his unconscious form back to their cell just before dusk, and it was just after as the slits in the upper wall went black that Tywin began to shiver. The elder was fevered and babbling, much worse than when he had been lashed. The pain he endured was deep this time, and Kevan had a stabbing pang of utter fear that the new Queen sought vengeance against Lady Sansa and his nephews.

Despite the promises and reassurances of the Imp, the reputation alone of the Lannister name, of _his_ generation, was a death sentence. An opportunity to exact revenge would not be ignored, certainly not by a Targaryen.

It was in the small hours of night, those just before the sky begged for light, that Tywin had become lucid enough to wrench out a word before the shaking near-madness swallowed him again.

" _...gelded._ "

It was followed by what could have been a sob or a laugh, Kevan was unsure, he could not yet see to confirm either way. But the statement brought with it an initial, sympathetic wave of nausea that began in his groin.

 _Oh, Tywin. My brother. My lord_.

Of course, he would sustain the brunt of the cruelty. Kevan himself ate kicks and punches for the knowledge they sought to extract, the knowledge he would die for, but cracked ribs and swollen eyes were nothing in comparison to _this_. They seemed set to carve away at his brother. Even now, well after information had become secondary, they were content with taking in flesh what they could not gain in words or apologies.

His brother was a man who should have been a king; _was_ king for the better part of four reigns. He was a man who suffered no fools, the first of whom was their own father. He was the man to remind Westeros just how many teeth the Lannisters bore, for the sake of their family's integrity.

Tywin was a boy cursed with a rigid sense of pride that had been instilled by their mother, only to watch her death unhinge the uselessness of their sire. His pride sometimes blinded the old lion, Kevan could admit, but the effectiveness of that sightlessness was undeniable.

Tywin had no interest in what was easy, he simply wanted things to work. He would plan meticulously in order to accommodate the needs of the many - the priority of family - but he also knew there was no plan or action that could wholly satisfy _the entirety_. There would always be those who will baulk and cry about what was fair, but the trick was to minimize those voices to as few as possible and settle those disputes with a quick and heavy strike.

His brother's trust was granted to fewer people than could be counted with one hand, Kevan knew, but it was this wary defense that defined Tywin as a young man and garnered him success throughout his life. Yet, when the pool of trust dwindles to only a few souls, you leave loyalty to chance. This fact was proven at the beginning of the new-Targaryen invasion.

The North and the Riverlands were loyal because of Lady Sansa, there was little doubt there. The only real variable was the Reach. And in keeping the Tyrell's close, the Lions had sealed their fate. Giving the Roses the run of the garden proved only to choke out everything else.

Kevan swallowed back the thick knot in his throat and returned his focus to the brother he followed into the maw of a dragon - to the brother he would follow again to the same destination, without hesitation.

Because he loved him.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin blinked at the bright strip of light that had angled to cover his eyes. He was loathe to move, to adjust his seat and posture, as the horrid ache which at first wracked through him now only radiated - but less so in certain positions. _My masculinity is_ quite _secure_. Those words rang true. A lesser man would have caved to the pain, to the horrible knowledge that what defined them as a man had been cut away, but Tywin Lannister was no lesser man.

A lesser man or not, a full moon's turn later and there he still sat.

Everything that surrounded he and Kevan was rank. Their clothing, their single fur and blanket on the floor that served as bedding, them - their skin started to become an offence, no matter the effort that was made to wash. Even the air from outside was more a toil than usual. The whiff of charred wood and meat that had hung for moons was finally dwindling, though now King's Landing's ever-present smell of shit and rot was seeking revenge.

Although for whatever annoyance it was, it was at least something to occupy them.

They had waited in their cell for weeks now, the Queen seemingly bored with them, all but forgotten save a meal a day of whatever bread and meat were most maggot-infested. Not that they expected to be treated well, by any means, it was merely another ploy riddled with transparencies.

Yet one more assurance that his wife would prevail in this new world.

The Great Lion taught her all he could in the time they had. A struggle at first, but once she opened herself to the idea of having a greater expectation of herself, Sansa flourished. She bloomed and thrived and took it upon her natural tendencies to become a teacher as well.

And but how the old lion was studious.

He had learned that the bitter taste of crow was palatable when served with forgiveness. He had learned that his wife was just as much a part of his strength and fortitude as he was, as his name was, as his gold was. He had learned that her scent - that of the light floral perfume she favored, the citrus in her bath, and the smell of _her_ \- could make his mouth water. He had learned that the press of her body laying atop his offered first pain - where her pelvis dug into his groin - then infinite pleasure when she would lift slightly and rub against him at a new angle. He had learned that when she found her pleasure, shuddering and gasping his name, that he became a different soul altogether - no longer just a man, but a _thing_ capable of pleasing the goddess that chose to share his bed.

He had learned.

And he had suffered.

Tywin languished under the perpetual grace of his wife and spent the latter part of his marriage atoning for the wrongs he had perpetrated upon her - physically, emotionally, and by proxy. He was every part a penitent man, burning in an unfamiliar state of remorse, but it was for the sake of Sansa alone.

For no one else. Not for his siblings. Not for his children.

Only for her.

And it was Sansa he was dreaming about, eyes wide open, in the middle of the day, when his senses thought to trick him. He believed he smelled her. He believed he heard her voice - authoritative and divine. The old lion was settling into his new dreams where the vision of his wolf was invigorated, made almost tangible, when his brother spoke to spoil it.

"Ty, that's Lady Sansa. I hear her."

From where he was leaning against the ugly wooden door, Lord Tywin rolled his head lazily to meet Ser Kevan's eye.

Tywin knew what precious time he had anticipated at the moment of his defeat was near exhausted. And much like those finite measures, the lion himself felt the end creep further into his tired bones.

He uttered not a word as a smile widened on his face.

The notion of an end, and thus a beginning, was something embraced.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin woke alone for the second time that day, Kevan remained absent since the evening prior.

The stretch of light on the floor in front of him told him it was still very early morning. The excited whispers and hurried pace of steps outside his door told him this was the day he would die.

As if on cue, the door to his cell swung open hard, admitting a beast larger than the entryway itself. Though, the hairless dark man's function seemed at odds with his form. Tywin watched the animal set down a bucket of water, hard-pack soap and some linens, as he held in his hand what looked to be a shaving blade.

The razor seemed a children's toy in a palm that large, Tywin noticed - yet one more thing at odds with the beast.

"Wash."

The barely intelligible instruction came with the linens tossed at him, and the man mimicking the act. Tywin understood by the imposing, unmoving figure, that the beast would be inclined to witness the cleansing of his queen's sacrificial lion.

So be it. This particular lion was well beyond concerned.

The water was cold and his groin ached dull and persistent. He did not care.

The giant hand once again made a motion, this time it was to stall Tywin in redressing in his filthy clothes, and to shake the razor.

Looking up at the massive bald brute, the lion pointed to the man's oiled skull, and then back to his where a growth of hair ringed the back of his head from ear to ear, then to the course hair that filled in above and below his lips, and down his neck.

With a toothy grin, the giant wasted no time. Tywin was very nearly dry-shaved, but the miracle was that no bloodshed occurred.

He was offered a pair of clean breeches and a tunic. He took the breeches.

Once dressed and ready, Tywin made for the door - outside which stood a clutch of savages waiting for their most important charge - and as he made to squeeze past the human wall sharing his space, the strange barber yet again surprised him. His hand wrapped completely around Tywin's bicep, prompting the lion to glare at the beast. But the beast glared back, and it was nothing hostile.

The man, so foreign and bizarre, looked at Tywin squarely with eyes that spoke of naught but solemn respect.

What a startling notion, this comradery amongst soldiers.

Amongst men.

Enemy or ally. Savage or Lord. Each is an animal that bleeds. Each is an animal that dies. There are no favours when it comes to the Stranger, death is gift bestowed to every living thing at the moment of their birth. The only discrepancy amidst individuals is time - and even that cannot be purchased, only borrowed.

Lord Tywin twitched the corner of his mouth, nodding knowingly at the man, his equal. Of which, the reply was another toothy smile and a nod of his own.

His arm was released.

The old lion walked.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin Lannister was at peace as he paced willingly to his end. the weather held and it was well into the afternoon with the sun just making its descent.

With every corner turned, with every corridor left behind, Tywin felt lighter. Burdens lifted, concerns quelled, his soul centered; he was a man ready to burn. It was not some mystical foresight that he knew of his method of execution. Like most everything pertaining to the Targaryen queen, it was disappointingly predictable. However, when his procession halted suddenly, Lord Tywin found himself jarred from his final thoughts and summations. It was an interruption made more appalling due to the reason; a reason who waddled past a row of barbarians, straight into his line of sight.

The old lion had no intention of conversing, but as words were set before him - carefully dealt, weighed and assessed on each side of such an obvious gamble - Tywin savoured the opportunity, this _final_ opportunity, to lay the game to rest.

"Are you truly going to die hating me?" The smug air in which the question was asked was part and parcel of he who had asked it.

"I don't _hate_ you, Imp. I simply don't _care_ about you." Tywin leaned in and sneered, "The woman you took from me, the colours you wear, the name you continue to end your own with..." He looked to the direction from whence he came, wearing a look of sadness for a heartbeat before it was gone and both his disdain and focus returned to Tyrion. " _That_ is what I care about. Not _you_ ," he scoffed cruelly, "Never _you_."

Tyrion looked to where his father pined and opted to hurt him equally, to force his hand in emotion, "You _do_ care for Sansa, then."

When he turned back, the face and tone of Tywin Lannister was a void, "More than a creature like you will ever comprehend."

"Oh, I _comprehend_ , father," he choked out in a shaky whisper. "I know exactly what that feels like."

There was nothing in the elder Lannister, save agitated disappointment.

"What happened to her?" Tyrion seethed.

"I'm sure I have no idea to whom you are referring-"

"My _wife_!" His body set to tremble in his fury.

"You're not married, Tyrion," the old lion scoffed. "I gave you the opportunity once and you handed her back to me. Though, considering the waste it would have been, I'm grateful. But come now, has your debauchery finally leeched you of your senses?"

The Queen's Hand felt half-mad with the same outrage that swallowed him the night of his escape; the night he opted to save a friend instead of kill an enemy. And there, in the corridor, there was no one to tie his emotions, yet he was equally robbed of the satisfaction of removing the life of the man who had made his existence a misery.

"Where is she?!" Tyrion visibly shook in his effort to speak. "Gods help your _precious fucking legacy_ if you don't-"

"What is it you want me to tell you, Tyrion?" Lord Tywin interrupted, as though he were offering no more than an easy platitude. "Do you want me to tell you that I slit her throat and fed her to the dogs?" He raised a brow. "That I fucked her myself and sold her to a passing merchant trader? That she _thanked me_ for annulling her mistake and is living comfortably, with more than a fist full of silvers?"

Tywin flicked his fingers as if brushing away a fly. "She was a whore who had no right to my name, and she's gone." He looked at the Imp with a critical glare. "Don't tell me your substantial inadequacies should be blamed on the memory of a woman."

The air in Tyrion's lungs burned. There was a pitted wrath in him that wanted only to kill this man, his father, but he was never one to give in to what the Great Lion assumed of him already, and once again he aimed to hurt. Shrugging in a way he knew Lord Tywin utterly despised, Tyrion raised his uneven brows and drawled casually, caustically, "Like father like son, it seems."

He watched his father turn to stone and straighten to a height and posture that did not require him to wear armour in order to lay waste and conquer. Tywin then turned abruptly, without further comment or care, and walked away. He looked as though it were _he_ who was leading the men taking him to his death.

And, strangely, Tyrion thought, _that_ would always be the truth of it. The Great Lion of Casterly Rock would control even his own execution.

Tyrion Lannister laughed then, the cracks in his very soul seeping both sorrow and elation. Each proportionate. Each tragically doleful.

The sound was something truly terrible.

...

..

.


	29. Truth IV

...

..

.

He was like a cat, a lion really. He could feel it in him, quiet and climbing to places others could never reach. He was a wolf too, fierce and powerful, unafraid of anything or anyone.

Jaime called him a _gods-damned monkey_ , and for Rykar Lannister that animal was just as amazing as any lion or wolf, if only because his oldest brother thought him one. The boy smiled to himself as he shimmied along the highest rafters of the main archway to the outer bailey of Casterly Rock. He was pitched in shadows, moving with the ease of one too, observing and waiting. Jaime had shown him this spot high and away, tucked into the dark recess of the archway's ceiling. All of the Rock's daily traffic passed through there and Rykar could hide so easily, and scare girls whenever he wanted.

Although he was there, on that day, at that time, not to tease the laundry maids, but to talk to his father.

He could have visited Lord Tywin in his solar, but the little lion had no interest in scratching a quill on parchment or waiting in silence forever - and that was what you did in that room. Rykar much preferred swords and excitement, just like Jaime, and knew once he had to sit as the Lord of Winterfell his life would be nothing more than talking and writing.

He hated his letters. He hated his numbers. He hated having to stand with his father and be introduced to bannermen and other lords... and especially _ladies._ The ladies would always want to pet him and Tysan, touch them like they weren't even real. They were nothing like aunt Genna, at least _she_ would lean in close and teach them a new curse word while pinching their cheeks.

Most ladies smelled bad too. Not like his mother, she smelled good, like home. Those others, their perfume would cover his tongue and taste bitter like eating soap. Even ladies his own age were boring; what use is a girl if her dress prevents her from running or climbing or doing anything fun?

Jaime said that he would like ladies just fine when he was older, but Rykar thought his brother had lost some of his mind along with his hand.

The last time the Lord Commander visited, Rykar had asked him when he could get a golden hand of his own, to which his oldest brother's eyes seemed to look far away and his face changed at the question. They had been laughing and teasing each other until Jaime's hand was mentioned, then he was no longer happy and smiling. It had been like watching a storm from way out on the sea roll into the coast - all dark and grey, sitting heavy on the world before the rain falls.

Rykar hadn't understood Jaime's switch of mood - he thought maybe his older brother just didn't want to share, but mother would have made him share anyway because that's what was fair - and when the boy went to touch the man, tug on the golden hand that played with his fascination, the elder recoiled as though the younger were something to fear.

Jaime had offered to spend the day with him, only him, when Ty was stuck doing writing and other boring things with Lord Tywin, and his mother was away in the Riverlands. It was more than a fair trade if you were to ask Rykar, his oldest brother had shared a secret passage that led straight up to the roof of the inland watch tower, and that's where they had stayed for most of the day.

His brother had divulged the best places to spy on those below without being seen, where to sit and be safe and warm in the sunlight, and also how to kneel low on the roofline in order to piss off the tiled edge... without it getting caught in the wind and coming back to hit you. _That_ skill took more than one try to get the hang of, but Jaime said he would never tell anyone that the monkey had pissed in his own face - although he was trying very hard not to laugh when he made the promise - and Rykar trusted his brother implicitly to keep his secret.

His oldest brother was a knight - _the Kingslayer!_ , the Golden Lion, the Lord Commander of the Kingsgaurd - and far more than merely a hero to the youngest lions of the family. It was that reality that caused Rykar to roar out his frustration and grab Jaime's golden hand anyway.

The prosthetic was cold and heavy, like gold should be, but there was absolutely no give in the way that it was fastened, cinched to his arm and far more restricted than the boy had anticipated. He twisted it and moved it without as much as a word from Jaime - he was still trapped somewhere in his head, his eyes looked lost.

"I don't wish this on anyone, monkey," Jaime had said.

His words knocked around his mouth like a stone in an empty cup. But that wasn't really Jaime, Rykar knew, his voice had gone the same distance as his eyes.

"I wouldn't either," was Rykar's distracted reply. He was still tugging and turning his brother's cumbersome hand as he continued excitedly, "I'd keep it all to myself!"

The little lion then climbed onto the lap of his brother to get a closer look, and couldn't help but notice Jaime coming back from wherever he had flown off to. It was like when Rykar and Tysan would see their mother become distracted at the oddest things, at the oddest times, then look almost like she was coming up for air from being underwater. That was the way Jaime had looked, like he was swimming back, and Rykar had been glad of it.

He loved his oldest brother and wanted to be just like him when he became a man... but he didn't want to go away like Jaime sometimes did.

"You don't need to hold a sword now." The little lion lifted then dropped the metal appendage, grinning at the solid thump-sound it made on the wooden planking they were sat perched. "It's a weapon all by itself." Rykar gasped out the words of his greatest inquiry, the most wonderful idea, "Have you hit anybody with it? That would hurt something awful. You think, Jaime?"

The younger smiled wide and excited at his older brother. It was the same smile and same excitement Jaime gave directly back - all the way out of the water now.

Everyone said he looked just like the Lord Commander did when he was six, with the exact same hunger for adventure too, just with different colored eyes. And Rykar liked being the same as his brother, but how he so wanted green eyes like Jaime, and like Tysan... like aunt Genna and uncle Kevan... just like his lord father.

The Maester told him he couldn't change them, but the old man was smiling when he said it so Rykar knew not to trust his answer. Father said never to trust a man that smiles, especially the first time you meet him. But he also said Jaime was the exception because he was family... and _something of a fuckwit_.

"The Tullys are known for their eye colour," Jaime had told the boy.

"But I don't want to be a fish!" Rykar had grouched in return.

"You have the mane like me though, and the eyes of your mother. You are the only Lannister with those traits Ry, it makes you a special lion. Just as Tysan's red hair makes him special, too."

Jaime pointed out to the wide expanse of the Westerlands, spread out before them, bathed in the sun that was now behind them. "See the sky? See where is meets the land?"

Rykar nodded.

"See how the sky is blue and the land is green?"

The boy gave a furious nod.

"That's you and Ty." Jaime chuckled at the absolute look of bewilderment on his baby brother's face. "What colour are your eyes, monkey?" he asked.

"Blue"

"And what colour are Ty's?"

"Green."

"Now look out to where the horizon is. You are the sky, monkey, and you will always be looking out over your brother."

The boy looked pensive, collecting his thoughts on the puzzle Jaime had given him. Like him, Rykar was a child that saw letters and numbers on parchment as a chore, but excelled when things happened around him. When they could _see_ the problem they could understand and fix it, without writing it down.

Jaime had spoken to Sansa privately, vaguely alluding to his concern. She, just as subtly, reassured her understanding that the boys learned differently than each other. The conversation then had turned into a paradigm of _could-have-been_ , and it made the Golden Lion miss his own mother horribly.

"And Tysan looks out for dirt?"

Jaime snapped out of his reverie and laughed at such a volume it echoed in cackles off the rooftop around them.

Rykar liked it when he laughed that way or smiled big with his teeth. Truth was, he just liked it when his brothers were happy.

"No, he looks out for you too, but like the land on the horizon he does it with a different perspective. It's good to have as many as you can."

The little lion's mouth dropped open a tiny amount as he hummed and nodded his comprehension, then asked, "What about when he's here and I'm freezing cold in the North?"

The Lord Commander kept a smile, but not as toothy as before, and his eyes squinted. "Does the North have a horizon?"

"I... I don't- maybe..."

"It does, monkey, I promise - I've seen it."

Jaime's face went serious then, and Rykar thought maybe he was going to drown inside his head again, but it was only his voice that changed - it was thick and scary, like when he would talk to the soldiers during sparring practice.

"No matter where you are, Rykar," he had said, "there will always be a horizon. And when you see it, it will always remind you that Tysan is looking out for you. Do you understand?"

The little lion pondered only for a moment. "And when he sees it, he'll know that I'm always looking out for _him_."

Jaime's eyes went from squinting to closed, his mouth curved up at the corners and he leaned his head back to enjoy the cooler breeze approaching dusk. Yet it was a small fierce voice that hooked onto that breeze and washed over the knight with the kind of sorcery he could only find in the company of a brother.

"You're the land at the horizon too, Jaime. I'll always look out for you too, you know."

The older Lannister opened his eyes and looked somber at the child sitting on his lap, leaning on his chest, and petting the hand that could not feel the attention. The same child that had his hair and his face. Jaime felt it in his heart then, the tight ache of loss and self pity, and pulled his baby brother into a frantic embrace. He hugged his monkey with the kind of desperation that adults recognize as a deep personal turmoil, that children interpret as love and affection.

Rykar wrapped his arms around the neck of his hero and hugged the man for everything he was worth. Life was good at that moment - on that day, perched on that roof - and the world seemed all right then… for both the monkey _and_ the lion.

But Jaime had left to return to King's Landing not long after that day, and Lord Tywin was now, so many moons later, set to leave too.

Sometimes he and Tysan would accompany their father to King's Landing, for the times when he had to be the King's hands. Sometimes Rykar wondered if that was what happened to Jaime's hand - the king used it up - and now Lord Tywin went there because he had two of them.

Their mother would stay at the Rock most of those times, she only went to the capital when there was something big happening. His father said she was stronger anywhere but there, but Rykar didn't know if he agreed. His lady mother always had the look of being pulled underwater when they were in King's Landing, but it never made her look weak… just more serious, like Lord Tywin himself.

...and his father was strong _wherever_ he went.

And now, more than anything, Rykar wanted to show his own strength - and go with his father to fight the dragons.

He wasn't supposed to know that was why his lord father was leaving, but Tysan talked when his dreams got bad and Rykar couldn't help but know that secret. He had crawled into his brother's bed, wooden sword and all, to protect him from the nightmares that were ripping him apart, but in the end there was no true weapon against the beasts in dreams, and Rykar could only lay there and listen; to watch helplessly as Tysan flinched in his sleep, fighting against what scared him.

Tysan had not been happy in the time his father started preparation to leave - a process that never used to take more than a fortnight before - and in the days leading up to Lord Tywin's departure, the older twin had stopped talking altogether. Except in his sleep. Rykar just wanted his brother to be his old self again - still quiet, but grinning too - to not be sad anymore. Amd the only way he knew to make Tysan better was to kill what it was that was hurting him.

Dragons flew, and Jaime said he was the sky. He would _not_ let them near the ground, not near his brother, _his brothers_ … or his father. So, lying balanced along the thick timber over the heads of unsuspecting passersby, the gods-damned monkey waited.

And waited.

The waiting was almost as boring as standing still next to his father's desk, but at least here he could watch people while he laid on his belly. When he tried that on the floor of the Lord's Solar, his lord father gave him a shove with his boot and told him that lions didn't do that. But Rykar had seen the real live lions kept at the castle, in their grand pens, and it was _all_ they did! _All_ day!

Rykar sighed into the scruffy wood he'd rested his cheek on and let his thoughts take him again. And they did. His daydreams danced the little boy through bouts of conquest and mayhem and fun. They sailed by fast and all at once, some made his heart race and others made him beam.

After a while that felt like days to a child, Rykar settled more firmly on a thought that made him smile. One when his father had taken him and Tysan to Lannisport to inspect a new galley. They had climbed all over that boat, and when Lord Tywin slipped through the hatch to the lower hold beneath the bottom rowing-level ahead of them, Rykar followed his brother into the lightless belly of the ship only for them to be left standing alone in the square shaft of light from their entryway.

The tiny lions never saw it, but their father emerged from the inky black and stuck only his face and head into that beam of brightness above them - and the old lion did roar. Loudly.

Both he and Tysan screamed the noises little baby pigs make and ran blindly into the darkness. He didn't know where his brother made it too, all Rykar knew was that he slammed full speed into the curved side of the boat, still sticky with whatever they used to pack the plank seams and dowel holes. And when he rolled so his back was against the wall, to look at the scene of terror, he saw Lord Tywin standing tall and completely enveloped in light. His father stood so big and powerful that he looked just like the statues in the sweaty, boring sept.

But this god, _his father_ , was better than any statue in that moment if only because he was happy. He even laughed, smiling wide and everything! Tysan could be heard off in the murky shadows giggling and laughing along with the Great Lion, and the sound of both could not be fended off. Rykar felt the fits giggles coming upon him and they would not be denied, so he laughed too.

When he walked back toward the brightness, Tysan was already there, still giggling. The sound made him feel weightless. That the three of them were all laughing at the same time made him feel invincible. But when he stepped into the beam of light too, he was the only one left chuckling.

His brother was wide-eyed, and puzzled. His father was narrow-eyed and looked very close to annoyed - but not quite there.

He had looked back and forth, from father to brother, waiting for one of them to let him in on the secret. "What?" Rykar had pleaded.

It was Tysan who tugged his hands to the front of his face. Along the palms, just below where his fingers started were sticky black lines, and perfect circles nearing the centers of each hand.

"What's on me?" he breathed, both fascinated and horrified.

It was his father's voice that sounded above him, and Rykar had to look - the old lion still sounded like he was going to laugh. "Ran into the hull, did you?" Tywin scoffed. "You're striped in pine-pitch, boy."

What should have been a reprimand came out with a smile. Yet, when Rykar smiled back to his father he felt that same sticky resistance on his cheeks and near his ear. His fingertips confirmed it - his face was striped too.

He wanted his mouth and face to be pulled in a way to show disgust, but it must not have come out like that because Tysan fell into peals of laughter again. Looking to his father for sympathy was a mistake as well; the mouth of the old lion curled to a smile and his eyes looked bright like when he was laughing before.

Rykar let them have their fun… he knew how to pay a debt.

Once they had returned to Casterly Rock, Rykar was lifted from his mount by the knight he rode with and wandered hand-in-hand with Tysan to the stables. Standing silently a few paces away from their father, they waited for him to finish speaking with the horseman. As they did so Merik, a stable boy of about their age that they'd befriended, rounded into the stall and stopped cold when he saw Rykar's new appearance.

The other boy tried to quell the treacherous smile that was threatening to split his face in two, but when Rykar looked at his friend and roared his own laughter the boy couldn't stop himself. They were quickly followed by Tysan. The three of them were gasping for breath and doubled over at the sight of black lines that reached across not only Rykar's face, but his hair and clothes as well.

"You look like a tiger, not a lion," the stable boy near bellowed through his laughter. His brows were raised and his hands were wrapped over his aching belly.

What happened next was a blur of movement, of momentary chaos. Merik was no longer in front of him, and what he thought was a coaxing slap to the hide of a horse somewhere in the stable was rendered appallingly clear as the menacing slap of a man to the face of a child.

Rykar's mouth hung open at the sight of his father, his face red, his eyebrows pinched low and mean-looking. His vision flickered over to Merik, sprawled in the dirt and the hay, his upper body coming to rest against the slats of the stall. His friend wasn't bawling, but his eyes were watering from the sting of it, and his hand was rubbing the place of impact. Rykar could see the long, finger-shaped welts already forming around the chin and over the bridge of his nose, and a large wheal that defined where his father's palm had landed flush on the meat of the other boy's cheek.

"You are a _Lannister_ ,"Lord Tywin had seethed, unflinching in his arrogance. " _No one_ laughs at you."

The golden-haired twin didn't know what his face looked like this time either, but he surely hoped it reflected his utter confusion. "But..." Rykar's eyes were fiery and sad all at the same time. "But I laughed first... And he's my friend."

Lord Tywin had looked down his nose at his son, his face hot with something hateful. The old lion was breathing hard, his nostrils were flared, and his hands were fighting his mind in their yearning to reach out and throttle his child for even thinking to question him publicly.

Both Tysan and Rykar were no strangers to their father's ire, nor were they unaware of the violence he was capable of in their presence. On remorseless whims, swift and brutal, the spill of blood that made a man still forever was not unknown to the boys. Though they had only seen it in context to prisoners - who were _all_ bad men to begin with... so said their lord father.

But that cruelty had never pertained to _them_. Or children at all. Ever.

...That they knew of.

"He is _not_ your friend." Lord Tywin leaned down to his youngest and sneered at him like he had only ever done with servants doing the wrong thing. "He is your _property_!"

The boy who was striped so comedically was bound in place and tilting with an unrivaled indignation, one that sparked and stabbed his guts.

Property.

 _But that doesn't even make sense!_ Screamed the mind of the child. _That wasn't even a puzzle!_

Rykar's mouth was dry, but ran with its own mind - a conscience altogether unaware of Lord Tywin and bent on a slight hinge of madness. "He's not a _horse_! He's a _boy_!"

He had never seen his father so undeniably furious than after those words. The Great Lion's fingers were curling and uncurling in front of him, like they were grabbing hold and strangling air. Rykar didn't care though, he was furious too!

From the side of his eye, Rykar could see Tysan move in quietly, like he always did, and help pick Merik up to his feet. Without a word, the older twin gently pushed the sniffling stable boy out of the stall and, before following, grabbed the younger's hand and tugged him back also.

"We're going to bathe, my lord. Rykar needs it."

Pulled a little harder, Rykar turned from the abominable scowl of the old lion and came face to face with the gentle kindness of his mother - in the features of Tysan. He was talking calmly, like nothing was wrong, no fear or anger either. Rykar knew then and there, at the tender age of almost-six, that just because Tysan didn't like climbing and jumping and the things that _he_ liked, it did not paint him a coward. No, not even close. His brother was strong in other ways and having the power to control their father, _a god!_ , was an unreal gift for anyone, let alone a child.

"Thank you for taking us with you, father," the Red Lion continued, still leading Rykar out, still looking only at the Great Lion. "We'll tell mother we're home."

When they had just about cleared the gate, Rykar looked back to his lord father, a preemptive flare of animosity already in place to rival that of the old lion, but the flare was doused as surely as if the sea were in that stall as well. His father, his god, was no longer enraged. The resentment of the man looked to have been washed away much like his own, and the face he wore was one the little lion could not easily recognize. It wasn't sadness, nor was it contentment… it was something out of place and in between. It looked like Jaime when he had talked about their other brother, Tyrion, and made the twins take an oath never to mention the name outside of the room they were sitting in.

Once free of the stable, the three boys linked hands and ran fast to the place they usually disappeared to on hot days.

Lower and lower into the Rock they ran, each knowing the way even if they closed their eyes. They only slowed when the stone underfoot perspired and made their steps unsure. They wound their way through caverns and had to feel along the walls for a distance before they reached the haven under the castle.

The pool in the cave was fed by a spring, not the Sunset Sea, and though the water was cold, it was not unbearable. The ceiling of the grotto reached so far up you couldn't see it, and although the hollow itself was formed well inside solid rock, there were notches and holes that dotted high on the walls - allowing for long spears of sunlight to illuminate what would have otherwise been nothing more than a black pit.

Rykar and Tysan found the pool all by themselves. It wasn't a tale from a servant or a hint from Jaime, this was _their_ secret place. When Merik became their friend, it belonged to him too, because you share with those who are your friends.

Each boy stripped down to nothing and sat lounging in the shallow part of the pool that was always drenched in warm sunshine.

The stripes of pine-pitch were eventually scrubbed off his skin, but Rykar found the price of being free of thick black tar meant he had to endure the pink lines that were scoured in instead. It was fair, more than fair really, if only because his two companions thought he was the most hilarious vision.

They all laughed. They laughed because it _was_ funny, and there was nothing that should have dampened that humour.

The humour of children.

Amongst the three boys, none of them mentioned the actions of Lord Tywin, that day or any day after; no apology was offered, no apology was asked for, it simply being a matter of what was. And to that degree, little boys were little boys and had far better things to worry about.

However, the incident did become a vivid lesson for both he and Tysan, a flicker of doubt festering into consideration, a building comprehension that the cool yet affectionate father they knew in their own lives was not the same man beyond the circle of family. That the same man who would talk to them and make them giggle and feel loved as they settled for bed, thought of other boys, _their friends_ , as nothing more than livestock - kept for a purpose, trained for efficiency, whipped for behaviour...

 _...put down if they became lame?_

Those thoughts made his head hurt. The possibilities made his heart hurt. So Rykar pushed them away, those memories of an eventful day, and let his mind regale the daydreams he loved more; the ones about him with a real sword, standing as tall as his father, swinging as strong as Jaime - slaying enemies and beasts alike - soldiering with Merik to protect King Tysan and, of course, his lady mother.

Rykar smiled then, letting the happy adventure take him while he set to wait once more, high up in the skeleton of the archway.

The little lion had been draped flat against the rough wooden beam for what must have been forever before he finally caught sight of his father walking through the sally port. The Great Lion always walked fast, in giant strides, and looked sullen. Though if he were in the company of his mother, his father's steps were smaller and his face didn't have so many jagged edges.

Luck was on the side of the monkey, in that the old lion was alone. All he had to do was wait for his father to be two beams away, then he could shimmy down the rigging - loudly, so as not to startle him. Rykar had discovered the hard way that his father was not the man to try and scare.

Six beams away… Five beams away… Four beam-

An arm struck out of the shadows and clasped onto Lord Tywin's bicep.

Rykar instantly pinched-up his face and opted to watch the scene play out through the squint of his eyes rather than witness the unleashing of his father's fury unimpeded unto the owner of the offending hand. But there was no loud voice, no sign of violence... nothing like that. Instead the one hand now had a mate, and they both grabbed at his father, tugging at him, pulling him into the dark black shadows they had emerged from.

For the briefest of moments Rykar feared for the old lion, but that fear turned to mystery when the deep frown on the lips of the man first flattened then rose at one corner, his brow matching the change.

Lord Tywin reached quickly into the murky nook and grabbed hold of his assailant. It was the sharp, playful squeal at had Rykar's own mouth grinning too - as hard as it could.

Mother.

There were no words between his parents, and the little lion found his smile waning the longer he watched them. They stood there, still like stone, just staring at each other. Their initial teasing melted away to the type of sober gravity both Rykar and Tysan had seen frequently since Lord Tywin announced his leave.

They touched all the time, his mother and father, that was not new. But, with the bouts of recent staring, they had seemed to be touching more as well. Aunt Genna said they were talking their own language, and at first he thought it odd that a language would have no words. But then he considered he and Tysan, and that they didn't need to speak in order to know what the other was saying, so it must be true.

The Great Lion had a hand on either side of his mother's face, looking so intense, and his mother, she... she just looked so beautiful. But when she brought her hands up to his father's waist and fisted them forcefully into his doublet, the strain and pull of the fabric easily recognized even at a distance, the little lion so desperately wanted to know what she was saying with her touch.

Lord Tywin must have known her words because he started leaning in, and his mother was reaching up higher to hug… No… No, not to hug...

With a snap of his head, Rykar turned to the side and squeezed his eyes shut until white dots could been seen under his lids, wearing a look of utter disgust.

They were kissing!

His lord father and lady mother... _kissing_! That sort of thing wasn't allowed outside, and they were doing it anyway! He wanted to groan and run away, like he did in the keep, but the perilous straddle he had on the cross-beam prevented him from moving. Prevented him from getting away from the breathing noises, the panting - like his parents were animals.

The disturbing sounds ended and, looking back at them again, Rykar saw that his father still held his lady mother the same way - his hands on her face - he was slouched close and his mother was speaking real words in a tone he could not hear.

When Lady Sansa wrapped her hands in a grip on Lord Tywin's forearms - looking now with a seriousness her children never liked to see because it ate away at the loving look she normally carried - she looked to be speaking some great confidence, something important. Whatever she said transformed his father, rid his face of everything mean and uncaring.

The Great Lion looked at his mother the same way Jaime looked at his sword - like it was the greatest thing in the world, but something he would never hold properly again.

There was a sadness in the monkey then, the kind that felt like trying to swallow rocks, and he had no idea where it came from.

Just as quick as his mother's hands had sprung out from nowhere, the interlude held by his parents ended. His lady mother stood tall on tip-toes and kissed his father again - fast this time so as not to be revolting - and watched him turn from her and leave.

But, no! His father was going the wrong way! That meant he would have to endure parchments and talking and waiting… His top lip snarled in dismay.

So caught up was he in the horrors of paperwork and patience, Rykar did not notice his mother carry on in the same direction his father had initially. Nor that she was stopped exactly one beam away and peering directly at him - like he was visible amongst the shade and gloom.

"Come down, please."

Her voice confused the little lion momentarily and he immediately looked around for the person she was talking to… Then realized she was talking to him alone. His lady mother was not smiling, but her intonation was gentle. She didn't like him climbing, and if she caught him at heights like rooftops and sheer cliffs, her eyes would hold a look that made Rykar's blood feel cold.

That hollow wash of northern iciness was worse than talking to lords, and the gods-damned monkey made every effort not to be caught.

Climbing down the knotted rigging slowly, showing his mother that he was being careful, Rykar tried to think of something that would explain him being up there to begin with, something perfect because his mother read thoughts like a seer. But he simply could not concentrate on both climbing safely and building the perfect excuse at the same time.

As he stepped to his mother, the monkey opted for an honest redirection. "Am I in trouble?"

Rykar had scrunched one side of his face as he peered up to his mother, knowing he was wearing the face she always grinned at. And it was working. He could see she was struggling to keep a serious look, but he didn't want to tell her he knew she was or else she'd try even harder.

"There will have to be _some_ sort of punishment."

The young lion started to groan, then ate it because complaint meant more floors to scrub or stalls to muck or - he shivered - laundry… with _girls_. He closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate. "Yes, mother." He sounded so thoroughly put-out, exhaling the two words, stretching them longer than they had any right to be.

Rykar heard a light scoff that gained to an equally light laughter and immediately thought of the annoying laundry girls. Then realized the laughing was right in front of him, from his lady mother. He cracked one eye open, as though she were volatile and might suddenly explode, and felt warm in the grin he found on her instead.

Both little lions adored their mother's smile, would do most anything to see her wear it, and considered it something of a triumph when it lead to Lord Tywin wearing one of his own. His mother's smile made Rykar feel like both a fragile babe and a indestructible giant at the same time, and he could help but wonder if his lord father ever felt the same way when she smiled at him - and knew from how the old lion sometimes wore different eyes when he looked at her that yes, yes he did.

"I want to go with father," he babbled impatiently, his mother's warmth and that of his recollections shoving the truer intentions of the day into focus. "I want to kill the dragons!"

His excitement crumpled and died right there. She wasn't supposed to know that he knew… Rykar looked away quickly and teetered on his feet as though the words were no more than imagined.

Fingers brushed through his hair, tucking hanks of it behind his ears, and Rykar's eyes fluttered in contentment at his mother's touch. She was magic that way, could always cure his sadness or hurt or impatience with a brush of her fingers, or a few loving words, or the fiercest of hugs. Her love could fix anything, he found, and he was glad she was his. Even if he had to share her with Tysan.

Rykar then felt the soft skin of her fingertips gently tug his chin upward. Instead of her wearing an angry look, she was smiling in the small lopsided way that she always did when she told he and Ty a secret.

He was excited again.

"I have need of you elsewhere, ser... but... Oh, I don't know..." Her words trailed off into nothing. She looked away from _him_ now, her face so serious and concerned.

 _This must be important_...

"I'll go, mother! Where? Where do you need me to go?!" Rykar was nearly falling over himself to get the answer, stopping short of scaling her gown to get closer to that illusive order. His father told him he was too big now to do that, he said, _"You're a Lannister, not an Arryn, you will not clamber over your mother like a milksop."_ Rykar didn't know what that meant, not really, but the look of repulsion on his lord father's face was enough to convince him he did not want to be one - whatever it was.

The little lion was fidgety until he felt his mother's magic again. Her fingers in his hair helped guide him into her embrace. Rykar hugged her back as hard as he could, then relaxed when her other hand started rubbing big circles on his back.

He liked that part. Both his mother and his father hugged with the circles, but more often it was his mother.

He felt her other hand move and gently rub the pads of her thumb and forefinger over the ridges of his ear, soothing him. He liked that too.

Mostly Rykar liked things fast. He liked to run and hated being still. Tysan had patience, where he did not, but when his mother showed him this particular affection, the world slowed down and was easy to understand. He could stop himself from feeling antsy, and actually wanted to listen to conversation.

 _Magic_.

Sansa placed a hand on either shoulder of her son, placed him back a step with a tender nudge, and looked once more at his face. Rykar was a boy very much like how she remembered both Robb and Arya: quick to ignite their temper, unequivocally loyal, and frighteningly brave. He had her eyes, but his face was very much Lannister. His boyishly smug smile was Jaime's in miniature, his six-year-old fury was every bit Tywin - and had been known to send knights and lords scurrying.

"You are needed in the North, Rykar," she bargained. "Both you and your brother. They've sent most of their men south to defend the capital, and the West is secure-"

"I'm to be Lord, mother." He nodded with as much seriousness a little boy could muster, vowing, "I should protect them."

But... But his mother smiled in a way that was not true, sad even, but she spoke before he could even question it. And such are the fickle minds of babes; hesitation forgotten, Rykar once again bounced eagerly for this unknown quest.

"Of course, young ser," Sansa whispered, tucking another golden curl behind his ear.

"When do we leave, mother?" he asked, excitement all but flailing in the boy. "Will I get a real sword? I'll need a real one to fight."

"Perhaps soon," was all she said, pulling her child into her embrace once more.

Rykar was looking way up to his mother, his eyes expectant in their silent plea for an answer to his other question. She was serious again, this time all the way, and the little lion felt his hopes plummet - his eyes shutting seemingly in time to the descent of his wish.

"You will bring your request to your father, young ser. It will be _his_ decision you have to win."

It was strange that his lids were still heavy, even under the renewal of hope, but his mouth was unaffected. The lion, the wolf, the monkey - it didn't matter the animal, the smile on the boy was genuine and true, a telling awe for the love of his mother.

Yet toothy and feral, a sly contradiction, for the love of adventure.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lady Sansa stood looking over one of the lower battlements, watching the large procession marching up the lengthy incline, through the many portcullis, and streaming under the massive sally port that would eventually grant access to main yards of Casterly Rock.

Amongst the motley parade, motley banners flew sporting dragons and krakens and horses and golden fists, and were held above the hordes of men who had choked the coastline from Faircastle to the Shield Islands. Lannisport remained surrounded, besieged by a silent wall of impenetrable sea-fare moored as tight to the shore as possible.

There had been no attack. When the ships arrived and assembled their defense, Sansa ordered the evacuation of nonessentials from Lannisport - a decision agreed upon and planned for well before Tywin left for King's Landing.

"Why not fight on the water?" she had asked her husband.

"Why give them what they want?" he had replied. "Let them fight on land, through buildings," Tywin continued. "Lannisport's remaining levy is unmatched, and they will prove formidable on their own ground. This is your home, Sansa." Tywin had draped his fingers at the nape of her neck and drew her close into his warmth, into his stony voice, and said, "Let the bloody cravens come to you."

And come they had. They arrived in overwhelming numbers, but that was all they had done for more than a sennight. Until they had finally sent word to the castle.

The invaders were looking to treat.

"Who are they, do you know?" Sansa asked the man beside her without taking her eyes away from the lengthy approach of the new Queen's delegates.

Ser Daven Lannister stood to her right. Commander of Lannisport's conscripted men, he was the man Lord Tywin relied upon to lead their men and defend his home and family. He was also a man Sansa trusted and felt at ease in his rough presence. He was a large man, taller and broader than her husband, but he had a gentleness that reminded her of her father, and a humour that was more attuned to Lady Genna than the rest. She felt comfortable with him, a northern kind of comfort, the type Ser Daven seemed apt to reciprocate.

"The Imp-"

"Lord Tyrion," she corrected.

"Apologies, my lady. _Lord Tyrion_ seems to lead them, and from what the ravens say there's a Greyjoy with him." He looked to his lady, smirked, then raised a brow, "The big bastard, they say."

Her face did not betray a thing, though her eyes gentled at the man's attempt to rile her. She simply nodded in acknowledgement and spoke the next question on her mind. "What of the rumours - the Brotherhood raids?"

"Seems the Lannister name has become something of a trophy, my lady. Some have taken to offering the usurpers our heads as appeasement." He shifted his weight and cleared his throat. "And that's talk from as close as Golden Grove."

Sansa turned to the man and spoke in a tone more befitting her husband, "Calm yourself, ser, lest you do the work for them."

Ser Daven smiled inwardly at her words. The power of influence and time were freely wrought on his lady. She sounded more like Lord Tywin as the years plodded on, but it was not until war was declared that she transitioned into her own lion completely. It was what the people of Lannisport, the people of the West needed, and it was what she gave. The same confidence, natural and uncompromised, that radiated from their other Great Lion.

The burly commander kept his eyes on the approaching caravan, raised a brow once more, and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I'm the pretty one, you know." He greased his charm and looked squarely to Lady Lannister. "Might be this head makes some heathen quite rich."

He tried to hold onto his seriousness, but it was no use. The look Lady Sansa painted herself with was somewhere amidst disbelief and outright consideration - her courtly compliments and learned indifference both fighting each other for rule. Then, in a span of barely a heartbeat and all at once, the Lady of Casterly Rock lost whatever instance of humour she had. Sinking back to, and refocusing on, her actuality.

Her children were gone, hidden away. Her home was under siege, at the precipice of battle. Her lord, her husband, had lost the capital, lost his freedom, and he would, as they had discussed prior to his leaving - huddled naked and close under covers, speaking to one another with lips upon skin in the dark of night when her fingers and toes would become cold despite the warmth of the room and the bed she shared - lose his life.

The truth of it all butchered the little bit of levity Ser Daven thought to give her, as he had since the nightmare began.

"Bring them to the hall, ser," Sansa intoned icily, turning on the ball of her foot to leave.

Daven Lannister recognized the change immediately and adjusted his attitude to meet her rigidity. He bowed to his liege, "Yes, my lady."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The dais in the main reception hall of Casterly Rock towered over the petitioners floor. It was no more than a deception created of angles, steps, and the enormity of furnishing, but the effect was always the same, that it allowed for instant leverage when those summoned to the hall stood in awe of such dynamics.

Tyrion entered the grand chamber without hesitation, his large, silent Greyjoy companion in tow. His footfalls stayed aimed at his destination and his eyes stayed aimed at his conversational target.

The Ironborn man, clad in dull black armour from head to toe, walked with a minute scuff, and though his eyes were pitched in shadows under his helm, one could clearly feel his gaze, and the directional momentum in which it was pitched.

At whom it was pitched.

Lady Sansa sat on the ornate golden chair, no less than a throne, that Lord Tywin had commissioned for his first wife. She wore a gown of deep grey, trimmed in crimson with bright gold embroidered accents that seemed make her and her surroundings shimmer as though she were perched upon the sun itself.

Tyrion had heard talk from traders and merchants over the years, those coming from Lannisport, all speaking of the Lady of the Rock and how she ruled the West. And as he approached his _mother_ , in a hall known to rival that of King's Landing, he knew the room was no longer the attraction. A dais, stairs, multiple angles, and a chair had absolutely no claim on the astonishing power the mere presence this woman held. And when she spoke, any doubt of even the most level-minded nature was cast aside for its uselessness.

The environment of the large room changed as it filled with every manner of man, in every manner of dress: from fully plated soldiers to sailors and foreign warriors in no more than rags. The air curdled to that of sweat and stink, the funk found only when people live in close quarters. The concern, however, was in the sheer number of bodies that continued to pour through the heavy double doors.

She would _not_ house and entertain an entire army.

Lady Sansa raised her hand and the Lannister men, the banner bearers edging the room, drummed the blunt pole-ends into the stone floor - a solid, steady thump until the chatter and bodily shifting ceased.

Sansa addressed only one man in a room full of them. "Your men are welcome to camp beyond the bailey, my lord, not in my hall."

"Apologies, Lady Sansa. Most are unfamiliar with the finer points of propriety." Tyrion hinted an air of genuine embarrassment

"Be that as it may," she answered coolly. "You will rectify the offense before I am prone to believe it deliberate."

Tyrion's mind reeled, _Gods, she's turned into my father!_ But he also knew that with the game at hand and the rats underfoot, Lady Sansa had no other option than to shoulder into her thickest armour and wield her deadliest weapons with all the skill and agility she owned.

This was what Lord Tywin had prepared her for - and what flawless precision his father had crafted.

"As you wish, my lady," he said respectfully. Tyrion nodded once, then spun to speak to several men of varying garments, and after a momentary rumble of discourse, a great many of the men began their exit.

"I also have no intention of holding court." Lady Sansa addressed Tyrion directly as she stood and pressed on, "Choose your contingency, my lord, and we will commence in the Lord's Solar."

"Lady Sansa," Tyrion inquired with a smile, "I would request food, perhaps drink for my men, if it please you. The journey is a long one to the castle, as you must know."

There was no movement on her face, no hint of compassion or even disdain. "We were rationed for war, my lord. Then our ports were laid to siege." Sansa narrowed her eyes and spoke in a brisk tone of derision, "What makes you think I can spare you a meal?"

Tyrion lost his smile, lost the charisma he thought to bestow. The intimidation of both the woman and the hall combined into something restrictive, and he found it removed his words as well.

"Broth, bread, mead."

Lady Lannister was already turning to leave as her last words dropped heavily into the room. Her four guards flowed to trail in her wake, leaving Ser Daven to serve as intermediary once the Imp chose his men.

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	30. Truth V

**This chapter contains discussions alluding to sexual assault and rape. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.**

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 _The Lord's Solar._ Tyrion thought his lord father's solar had not changed much in the time since he was a child. Not that he was allowed audience in this sanctuary, but he had been a clever enough boy to see the inside of it more than once.

Lady Sansa was standing near the large hearth at the side of the room, an area which had obviously been designated for debate and deliberation. There were carefully arranged chairs and tables to accommodate at least half a dozen bodies. None of whom would be members of Sansa's own council this day - a stipulation of the Crown: to negotiate solely with the Regent in the West. The lords of her assembly thought the Queen meant to seek weakness in their liege, and if such was the case, they also knew the woman's error.

"Just the two of you?" Sansa's voice did not show it, but her eyes widened minutely in a sign of disbelief.

Tyrion glanced back at the large figure behind him, then returned to his host, and clarified, "Actually, just one, my lady. I have every faith that you and I are more than sufficient to negotiate a resolution."

Lady Sansa nodded demurely and offered nothing else by way of pleasantry. Yet when she set to speak, her next words were stepped over by those of one of her shields.

"Show some respect _squid_." Ser Royene stepped out menacingly, addressing the massive man in the dull inky plate, "Remove your helm in the presence of Lady Lannister."

When the large man said nothing and moved not one muscle to comply, the second and third of her ferocious guards stepped around her to join the first, while the fourth gently tugged her back from the impending mayhem. The air was thick with potential violence, and as soon as Tyrion made to staunch the tension, all four Lannister guards unsheathed their long swords.

In answer to their call, the kraken freed his great sword in a strangely beautiful, strangely familiar maneuver that involved the full stretch of his arm and a bodily tilt forward. Sansa visibly relaxed as the display sunk fully into the recollection that it had initially snagged.

Her shoulders were no longer tensed, her features were no longer lined in severity, and she laid a hand on the vambrace of her closest knight. "Stand down, Ser Royene," she soothed, stepping forward through the clutch of protection. "All of you, stand down."

The instruction seemed directed toward every man in that room, even the helmed man lowered his huge blade.

Lady Sansa took another step forward, first looking at Tyrion, pleased to see on his face a placid look of trust, then concentrated her focus on the stubborn giant she was now looking up at.

"Please, remove your helm..." she said as she stepped a little closer - calmly, easy, so as not to overly disturb the man. "Please, Sandor."

The name tumbled from her tongue as though it were something merely waiting to be freed. She did not smile, but it didn't much matter, the young woman's acknowledgement was more a welcome than was expected. When a snort reverberated from behind that nondescript helm, Sansa had to bow her head in order to hide her self-indulgent smirk. And upon his deliberate removal of the offensive armament, Lady Lannister held in her relief.

Before her stood her history. No longer the gaunt man of her most recent memories, but the fierce non-ser from her past; that same warrior with a perpetual flush of agitation wrung across his face. And while his pallor had improved, she was taken slightly at the angry red scar that started on his forehead, vertically bisected his remaining eyebrow, and came to an end at the ridge of his sharp cheekbone.

It was the Hound she knew, give or take the new signs of battle and survival. It was the man she hoped would live.

Her investment. _Her friend_.

Looking from Sandor to Tyrion, Sansa's responsibilities reasserted themselves. Her safety was unquestionably sound in that moment, though the safety of her family was paramount and still uncertain.

Walking to one of the chairs by the large hearth, the Lady of the Rock addressed her knights. "Wait outside-"

"We can't leave you alone with a kingslayer and a butcher, my lady." This time it was Ser Lanning that spoke his gruff protestation over the wishes of his liege.

Her tone was bloodless, "You can, and you will."

"Forgive me, my lady," the man argued, "but Lord Tywin-"

Her inflection plummeted to something deadly. "Obey me or find yourself removed from my service. If you serve Lord Tywin solely, I implore you to seek him out currently to air your grievance."

The threat made mention of the man she knew to be a prisoner. It had also made her angry in her despair over that same revelation. Her breathing was becoming shallow at that flux of emotion, she had to fist her hands in an effort to maintain restraint. Her bones felt heavy. She was so weary, already tired at the notion of the loss that was surely to follow, and felt the keen crush of weight from the burdens currently upon her.

A handful of moments were all the knights took to silently confirm their command before making their way to the large entryway and stepping out.

"They wear grey..." Tyrion broke the quiet and casually hoisted himself onto a chair as though he were there as an invited emissary and not an enemy besieging her waterways and pressing to treat. He looked at her with the coy grin and raised the uneven brows she remembered so fondly, drawling, "Oh, what _have_ you done?"

"Not grey - gold." The words rumbled out from behind the two friends. Sandor stepped into their view, digging for a pouch that had been secured under his tasset. Approaching the lady of the castle, Sandor freed the prize he was working at and handed the bag to the woman now within arm's reach.

Sansa exhibited no hesitation in collecting the proffered satchel. Much like their encounter in the godswood years ago, it was as if no time had passed between them. There was a trust there, something inherent, something obvious even to the casual observer - and perfectly plain to Tyrion, of course.

The bag was weighty and jingled like coins were within. Yet when she opened and tipped out the contents, it took a moment to realize that the few loose rectangles were no tender of known denomination, and when the rest - a connected cluster of those same rectangles - slid into her palm, she was speechless. It was what was left of her necklace… Of that finery that once defined her as Tywin Lannister's wife, then defined her again as a calculating player much the caliber of that same man.

Even with cursory inspection, she could see that most of the piece remained intact - the diamonds were gone, but the large ruby was still there. Everything removed or dismantled was carefully, thoughtfully worked apart...

Sansa looked up at the man she had dowered so heavily in, financially and otherwise - really looked at him; ever so ferocious, ever so strong, yet still harbouring the unfamiliar calm she witnessed once before on a cold winter's day. And though his settling serenity looked so foreign to her eyes, it looked almost natural on Sandor, and she could easily glean that the trait now helped to define _him_.

She dropped her view back to the finery in her hand, and it was to it that she spoke with only a hint of awe. "You took only what you needed."

Sandor's response was a huffed-out grunt, but it was only meant to regain her attention. The tactic worked, and he watched as she raised her unreadable eyes to him once again. "And it will be repaid," was all he said.

Her voice and her emotions were well shuttered, as he would only expect from the wife of the Great Lion. Although he still expected useless flourishes from the little bird he had tried so vehemently to terrify them out of. It was an effort to remember that this current entity was no longer the same girl. Her next words that made that particular distinction blindingly clear.

"If you feel that is a requirement of your conscience, so be it. But know it is not a demand that I make of you."

Sandor stood static, blinking at her without saying another word, absorbing hers.

Another handful of years had proven her grown even more, her edge was sharp and her mind equally so. No, this little bird no longer chirped, no longer parroted the pretty words and phrases meant to please princes. This wolf in lion's clothing was far more dangerous, far more cautious, and every bit a challenge.

After a few heartbeats, he nodded with another grunt and stepped quietly back into a shadow along the wall of the great solar. His actions played like a silent cue for the treaty to begin between the most unlikely of Lannisters.

Lady Sansa walked to the large desk in the room, depositing the necklace and briefly quilling a request for the jeweler, she then walked back to take her place almost directly in front of the Hand of the Queen.

She sat straight and waited for the half-man to begin.

 _Let them come to you, always._

 _Keep them guessing, always._

 _Retain an advantage by any means, always._

 _Family first… always._

Her lessons came to the forefront, those that were learned and those that were earned. Every element of survival she knew to that day was working together, drawing from each other, and cast a strategy clearly in her mind. Tyrion began as she had been assured he would if made to wait long enough. Her patience was second to none, and because of that _his_ words were spoken out of impatience and more than a little arrogant.

"As you can tell, my lady, the Queen is more than serious about her birthright. Her manpower is unstoppable and her dragons are a powerful force."

Sansa's demeanour remained elusive as she dissected the man. His words felt of bravado, but there were half truths and assumption thrown in at what seemed to be a whim. He was trying to coerce by way of intimidation and Lady Lannister could not help but wonder if Tyrion forgot to whom she was married.

"You have one and half beasts, my lord-" she began, her voice flinty. It was not unknown that the black beast was cut down and the white one would never fly again. In the course of days, the mysticism of dragons had been thoroughly debunked.

"Ah, _not_ a lord," he murmured almost to himself.

"-and your desert warriors? How will they cope in a winter or simply the North?"

"Regardless of what happens on the mainland, my lady, it will be the scourge of the coast that will see the Queen prevail. The bulk of the Ironborn and the hired ships of Essos are unstoppable nautically. As you have experienced."

Sansa's features belied nothing. Not a blink or a twitch or a smile. She simply raised her chin and rose to her feet. Without a word, Lady Lannister implored her guests to follow as she walked with a mesmerizing grace to the balcony of the large solar.

At the height they were perched, the three had an unimpeded view of the cluster of longships, bulky war galleys, and waspy raiders that loomed in a crescent around Lannisport and her fleet.

It was Sandor who first snorted in disbelief.

Tyrion looked up at the tall man to trace his gaze - and huffed his own amusement.

"You're a cagey piece of work, aren't you?" the half-man breathed with the hint of a smile. His statement's aim was out over the rail of the balcony, but was more truthfully directed to the young woman behind him.

It took some squinting, and an elevated line of sight, but at the very cusp of the horizon was a distinct black line. A black line that had no natural right to be there... let alone to be moving.

 _Seems most forget we have just as much wood and water as the rest of 'em._ Wordsthat proved Captain Tavver had the right of it.

Sansa turned, leaving the two men to contemplate what they were seeing. Even at a distance the line was impressively long. It took nothing of skill to know that what lay on the horizon was enough to easily challenge the Targaryen show of force - their failed bullying threat.

"Who do you think it is? Baratheon?"

Sandor looked down to the Hand who was squinting as he calculated what he was seeing. "Doesn't matter _who_ , Imp. Only that they're there."

Tyrion listened to the Hound's armour softly clank and shift as he walked back inside and took a moment to himself before following.

"Surely you don't want war, Sansa," he said as he climbed to his seat across from her once again.

"No, I have had my taste and fill of war." The bitter copper was an illusion on her tongue, but it was there all the same. "Though I will gladly fight and die for my children." There was an uncomfortable creak of plate at the mention of her self-sacrifice. Ignoring it, she looked at Tyrion, her eyes flashing with admiration. " _All_ of them," she whispered.

His face pinched and he could not keep her stare. Tyrion cared for Lady Sansa, and that was his failing, his deficiency as a representative of the Crown - and she _knew_ it.

The woman in question inhaled deeply through her nose, speaking around the gap between them. The chasm where the notion of war and bloodshed fell. Each party recognized without stating outright that that avenue was never more than a sad show of pretense. "And the Northmen? What of the men from the Riverlands?"

Sansa's inquiry was not forceful, but was said in a way that allowed no room for misunderstanding. She wanted to know a death toll, the number of captives, a count of men that would be used against her. "There were casualties, of course," Tyrion provided, then continued, "But the bulk of those men have been left to retreat - to go home." This time there was no hubris in his words, simply the truth - albeit a heavily refined one. "The point is to _avoid_ sinking into more years of war, no?"

But in muddling his honesty, Tyrion only served to threaten once again - to anger once again - and with it came a crack in Lady Sansa's facade, allowing a glimpse of fury and weakness.

"Tell me, my lord," she seethed through her teeth, "Against a queen and her purchased soldiers, what do you think will run out first: the gold in my mines or the goodwill of the Iron Bank of Braavos?"

If she had been treating with any other man they would have taken her words as a strike, as the flung hostility they truthfully were. She immediately knew what she had done - the error she had made. Her mouth clamped shut and an angry blush rose up her neck. Sansa was furious at herself, but the Hand of the Queen was calm, his features were not ticking in calculation for retaliation.

Lowering her eyes, Lady Lannister took the time he gave to control herself once more.

"I have no inclination to fight, Tyrion," she said solemnly to her hands.

"I know, Sansa, and you do not _have_ to."

His words were tender, spoken in the gust of truth she had been looking for to begin with, but even within the overt nicety was an underlying potential for deception. Suspicion of that particular nature, in its truest and most volatile embodiment, was a well learned attribute, a debatably intentional gift to his wife from the Great Lion of Lannister.

Sansa raised her eyes to Tyrion, confidently, expectantly. "You cannot tell me your queen does not harbour the desire to rid Westeros of Eddard Stark's lineage, even more so to pay blood for blood for the designs against her family by Tywin Lannister." Her entire demeanour hardened again. "I'm sorry Tyrion, but if you tell me otherwise, you're a liar."

Tyrion exhaled audibly, not tired, no, but the exhaustion of trying to convey the truth without giving up his foothold was an exercise worthy of any tourney champion. "The Queen is young, but she is far from stupid and even farther from untested." He looked at Sansa with eyes that told her she should feel a connection to what he was saying. "Yes, your father helped lead the rebellion against Aerys, but she also knows _why_."

At his words, stories from her childhood flitted through her memory: her aunt... her grandfather... her uncle... She snapped to the present when Tyrion worked himself from his seat and stood before her. Clasping her hand in his, an unexpected gesture, he spoke with such warmth it all but destroyed her.

"You are regent in the West by marriage, in the North by blood. You are tied by family to the Riverlands, the Vale, and the bloody Wall!... Sansa, you are _not_ a pawn." Tyrion bent awkwardly at the knees to look her directly in the eyes she had turned downward, whispering rather playfully, "And I dare say this is no revelation."

She nodded to herself as Tyrion let go her fingers and rounded to the table holding the wine service, pouring himself a glass.

"Sansa, you are safe. My little brothers are safe. The Queen will _not_ seek retribution through your blood." He took a drink of his wine and returned to his seat. Once comfortable he spoke again, all arrogance and pride, "Nothing will change for you, _mother_. You will keep the West, and the North, but," Tyrion dropped his humour, "the Queen will keep you."

"Define _keep_ , _son_."

"Your fealty, of course. Your assurance of assistance in convincing the rest to bend the knee. Like you, Queen Daenerys has no will for war. But if pushed, she will push back-"

Sansa became distant and austere, carrying a tone Tyrion remembered from his youth - from his father, "Tyrion, tell me _why_ the lives of myself and my children are being spared."

"You _live_. Not enough?!" Sandor barked from the dimmest part of the room.

Sansa did not spare him a look, her hard gaze piercing her _son_.

Tyrion took a deep breath and seemed to be in pain. "Because, you aren't like _him_. Your children aren't like _me_." He leaned his head back as though his thoughts would spill and he had to adjust to save them.

She considered him, absorbed his words, and felt the pit of her stomach go cold. "Your brothers are third and fourth born and will not challenge your claim, Tyrion." It was said with palpable sincerity, but the purpose of her statement was to coax out the information she knew she did not want to hear.

The Imp smiled his crooked smile. He knew her game.

Blinking slowly, Tyrion spoke with an air of whimsy, "The continuation of my life requires three things: that I remove myself from succession in the West, and that I do not marry, nor sire children."

Sandor snorted at the last stipulation.

Sansa was still completely focused on Tyrion, the images and calculations were piling up in her mind. "And what of Ser Kevan's wife and children?" She was thinking of his daughter.

Tyrion again looked pained and, without breaking eye contact, he shook his head slowly.

This time there was an element of desperation in Sansa's voice as she said, "His wife is not a Lannister, their children..." She was now edging on anger. "Spare them, Tyrion. If that's what saves me, why doesn't it save them?"

He noticed her inquiry left out the children of his aunt Genna, but, he smiled inwardly, his _mother_ only had so much leeway for Freys. And the way he addressed her introduced a new kind of callousness, an inner deadening of him that had never been there before. "They are not _Starks_ either," he offered blandly. "They hold no name or claim of value to the people of this land. Sansa, to the people who really matter - regardless of what they may say amongst company - your name is a fable, the North is highly accountable, and your father and brother are now legends of their own."

Sansa closed her eyes and fought the screams and tears she could feel in herself struggling to be freed. Once again her name would lead to condemnation and the forfeiture of life. It was an endless line of needless suffering.

 _There will always be suffering, in one form or another, waiting for you in this life._

 _What do you choose?_

 _Fight._

She snapped her eyes open. "Spare them," she commanded. There was not one _fraction_ of negotiation in her tone. "If your Queen wishes to puppet me, she will be wise to spare innocents for the sake of revenge."

"This is something you could bring to the Queen personally when you swear fealty for the West and the North."

"This is something that will be agreed upon _as a condition_ of my fealty, my lord."

"I am not a-"

Sansa's mind flew into a panic, buzzing in its jumble of images and nightmares as she recognized the piece of the puzzle she had so willfully ignored since the fall of the capital: she would be required to go back to King's Landing. She would be there… _He_ would be...

Another man connected to her, doomed to death by the powers that be.

Her mind choked on a spike of anxiety.

Her mouth did not.

"I will not... witness..." She took a shaky breath and laid her stony gaze upon her _son._ "His death, Tyrion, I will not be forced to watch another-"

"No. No, of course not." Tyrion tried to smile thoughtfully, but it came out a pathetic grimace.

"This is a start," he said as a form of cover. "A good start. If it please, my lady, I will send a raven this evening and look to continue talks tomorrow. I am sure your councilmen have frenzied themselves awaiting your word."

"I will not be bending the knee for the North," Sansa said, half distracted yet fully invested in her words, an attempt to clear as much as she could in one sitting. "The Blackfish has been elected by the northern lords for that task-"

"Tomorrow," Tyrion said gently.

She looked at him then, at her friend. _At her friends_ , as her view flicked to Sandor. She nodded in acquiescence.

It was something of an invite for the large man, that brief look. That acknowledgement of him as more than merely a sword and an intimidating presence within the room. Sandor stepped forward and watched as the little bird - _no_ , the Lady Lannister - quickly stood up in practiced anticipation of his next move toward her. Against her. It was a realization - whether it was terrible or perfect, he could not decide - that she had been thoroughly conditioned to such an extent.

A physical demonstration of self preservation, and Clegane felt a pinch of guilt in that this type of wary vigilance, though not necessarily distrust, had probably begun with him all those years ago. To think on those memories made him punchy and hollow. It may as well have been another lifetime, another story altogether. But it had happened, those fated paths, and he had followed them. Not blindly, mind, but thoughtlessly for the most part. And though it took no effort to amble along without care, the results were more than compelling. For those roads and markers, those forks and choices, had lead him to exactly where he stood now: before _her_.

In a careful measure, Sandor slowly lowered to a knee and gently swung his giant sword between him and his saviour - _his banker, his backer -_ laying it at her feet, never once removing his eyes from Sansa's.

There were no voices left in the room, the silence taking on its own noise.

Lady Sansa knew this pledge, had seen it in the North on the smiling faces of men, in the South amidst looks of fear, and here in the West with greedy, knowing grins.

Loyalty.

But what she saw on the face of the man in front of her was the purest form of such allegiance. Neither coerced nor forced, but a decision made inwardly - by the mutual contentment of the mind and soul. There was no material price you could pay for that type of devotion; no gold of any colour, no jewel of any size.

"Before I accept your sword, Sandor, know my terms and make your choice," she began. Her chin angled up a tiny amount, and her voice flitted with the same softness Clegane had heard for years in the murky depths of sleep - and for those days on the Trident when he had skirted the horrible promise of a slow, fevered death. "Your protection will not be for me, but for my sons." She watched for anything - disgust, annoyance, anger - there was only impassiveness. "They need neither a father nor a nurse-"

"What is it you want me to be?" he snorted, his usual ready impatience begging for air.

"Sandor, I want you to be yourself-"

"I'm no man to influence children," he growled in his familiar way, "You _know_ this."

She was unfazed by his gruffness. Careful to maintain his eye, her inflection serious, "You are who they need, and you are who I trust." Sansa watched as Sandor's jaw worked and flexed, his eyes narrowing and widening as he deliberated, until finally he shrugged. And it was that accustomed action that eased her mind.

"If it please you," he said.

Her shoulders relaxed at his agreement, she then tilted her head to the large man. "Your queen will allow your dismissal?"

"I offered no promises to her, I did not live for _her_."

Sandor's words were sneered, but Sansa could easily tell there was no venom behind them, no contempt seeking her as a target. The profound depth from which they were spoken was readily apparent to her. She smiled at him then - the same subtle grin she offered in the godswood the second time they had parted ways. It was the pleasantry offered to a friend, and the acceptance of his sword to her service.

As Sandor made to stand, Tyrion offered further context to a story he was at the periphery of. "The Queen had meant to have our Dog culled, at first. Though, he fought for his life..." Tyrion absently brushed his fingers over his own mangled face. "...and won."

"How was it you two aligned?" Sansa truly couldn't help but ask.

The large man began to open his mouth, but the half-man used _his_ personal strength to overpower him.

"Allow _me_ , Clegane." Tyrion chuckled at the snarl he received for his interruption.

"Finding himself funded," the half-man grinned at Sansa, the same smile he would tease her with from across tables at feasts in King's Landing, "Clegane bought plate and passage to Braavos. Boring, boring, boring," he sighed, "Contracted with the Golden Sons. Boring, boring, boring. Fought for the Queen in her army... Defended his life and became prettier... Now we're here."

There was an awkward pause, as though the air had been stretched taut, pressing against the trio like an uncomfortable skin.

"And you became… _friends_?" she said without bothering to hide her doubt. Sansa watched as Sandor tensed in a wave that started midpoint on his armour, led straight to the sneer on this mouth and the deep pull of his brow.

"No," Tyrion said, shedding every bit of humour. "He wished me dead, truth be told."

The lady of the castle flicked her eyes to the large man in question, observing his silent admission then returned to the half-man who was talking - sitting once again, leaning forward in earnest.

"Wished that for quite some time, not that I blame him." His voice was drifting, unmoored on the ocean of this recollections.

Looking between both men, Sansa could see the stirring of something painful. Something that had been rectified as best as it could be amidst them, yet still raw.

"What… Why?..." She didn't know to which of the two she should be asking the question, either way she was concerned, even more so when Tyrion answered.

"It's not a pretty story-"

" _Tell her_ ," came the command from Sandor.

This version of him was the terrifying Hound that Sansa remembered, a version so fatally authentic she was unsure she wanted to know Tyrion's tale. She watched the Hand of the Queen worry his lip in his teeth; trepidation - yet another young characteristic worn on her old friend. Even if there had been cause for hesitation, the Tyrion she knew while Joffrey lived would offer the farce of courage before admitting to anything less.

"Your Hound hated me for what he'd heard so many years ago - in rumour and talk around the Rock - that I'd given my wife to my father to punish and saved myself. He never knew I was part of that punishment." It was said like stone, and he was getting lost in the memory.

His wife? Sansa knew she had been offered in marriage to Tyrion and that he had rejected, but she was at a loss to his confession of a previous bride.

"You see," his voice was a ghost, "I was three-and-ten when Jaime and I came across a girl who was surely going to meet the worst kind of ravaging by the men who were about to set upon her." He paused a moment, swallowed, and set his jaw. "Jaime chased off the men, and I helped the girl. I took her to an inn and tended to her," he huffed a tiny laugh, "and _she_ tended to _me_." Tyrion blinked and looked down at his hands, "I loved her. There and then. She looked at me and saw nothing of what my father had always told me I was, _and I fucking loved her for it_.

"I am a Lannister despite what Lord Tywin says, I had gold, and I paid a septon to marry us. We stayed at that inn as husband and wife, and for the only time in my life I felt as tall as any man." He laughed again, but this time it was parched and desolate.

He took a fortifying breath through what was left of his nose and cleared his throat. "The septon feared my father far more than his gods, and his confession ensured we were found and brought back here.

"I was beside myself," he whispered. "Until Jaime sat me down and told me the girl was a whore. That he had paid a maiden whore to make me a man."

Tyrion looked up at her then, and Sansa's heart bled. The hurt and turmoil in his eyes...

"He told me he could prove it and took me to my lord father." His vision did not sway, but it became so very intense. "Lord Tywin showed me the parchment voiding my marriage, then dragged me by my collar to the east barracks..."

Sansa's breath began to quicken, her teeth clenched, and she felt an ominous prickle start at the back of her neck. Again she watched her friend become washed away in a current of horror - worse than that, of remembrance. And Lady Sansa knew all too well the toll of swimming against those types of waves.

"Each and every man in that barracks took her." His eyes watered and his voice became wet and nasally through the hole where his nose should have been. "She was a purchased courtesy, a favour paid for by their lord. He encouraged them, praised them in their degradation." He looked at Sansa then and sobbed, broken, and undone, "The final act of which w…," his voice wavered, intoned to almost mute, "...w-was _me_..."

The room fell again to an uncommon quiet, the sea also having seemed to hold its breath at the story being unfurled. Sansa looked past Tyrion to the wall behind him, not trusting her own emotions to view either man, offering her friend a reprieve to collect himself.

He took the time he needed to recover, there was no pressure or ridicule directed toward him, a luxury he knew would only be afforded by the people in that room. "I know now the look she wore was that of terror, not pleasure. I know what _he_ had done." Tyrion spoke again quietly calm, grim though the statement was. "The night I left King's Landing I meant to kill him. Jaime pulled whatever debt he needed to help me escape, but my freedom was no match for his conscience. He held me still in a cramped corridor and told me the truth about my wife."

Tyrion looked at Sansa dead-on. There was not one thread of warmth in him. "Her name was Tysha. She was the daughter of a crofter, happened upon by the sons of Lannister - married to one, betrayed by another, and raped by a hundred men at the orchestration of their father."

It was a dirge of the worst kind, one of broken love; more so, one that sounded rehearsed. Sansa dropped her eyes to the floor, her teeth bared in a grimace she was unable to hold back, fighting to balance the agony of both want and necessity, those constantly warring divisions of life seeking to overwhelm her.

Her gaze remained averted, she felt the pool of time grow stagnant and start to drown her. Sansa moved slowly, first to step, then to kneel in front of Tyrion; her hands blindly sought his, her guts tightened and churned, her heart was erratic in fits of pain and sorrow.

"I'm… so sorry," she forced out. Forced herself to give him her voice, forced herself to finally meet his eye.

"Saying you're sorry _implies you carry fault_ ," he teased sadly.

Sansa looked at her friend as the tears she struggled so hard to keep buried rolled over her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth. "You want me to _hate_ him, Tyrion, and I _can't_." She ducked her head and sobbed into her hands where they clung to his. " _That's_ why I'm sorry."

When she looked to him again, she saw a distinct flash of unmitigated rage that was eaten by unmitigated anguish as his own tears trailed down the pits and scars of his face.

Tyrion tightened his jaw, thrashing the wish to both despise and admire the woman before him.

His friend. His mother.

He knew he was asking too much of her. They were all fractured in some way, but she more than most. Sansa had more pieces scattered about than all of them combined, and he all but cornered her in his demand that she divide those shards again - break them into even smaller pieces.

What a selfish prick he was.

Tyrion juddered bodily as he made to stand, wiping his face on his sleeve and freeing the woman who wept her sympathy and solidarity into his hands; her tears in his palms were his forgiveness of her - the currency of their deal.

They each stood. There would be no more negotiation or conversation that day. And as he gathered his bearings and set to walk past his mother, Tyrion gripped an elegant hand that hung abnormally limp and wayward at her side. There was no contact other than that, there was no power in the two to offer anything more.

Sansa felt the grip of stunted fingers on her hand, then the tight squeeze she knew to be of assurance. It was the same reticent assertion he used on more than one occasion to relieve her doubt in the Red Keep.

... _in that one rudimentary act of communication, he told her she was safe._

She did not watch him leave, could not, but knew when the doors had opened and closed to allow him exit. Her tears kept falling, the visceral impact of the day settling over her like a wet cloak.

"No point crying for the Imp, girl."

Two large hands snaked around each of her upper arms, the strength of those hands turning her to face the other man in the room. The man who became a shadow himself, overlooked amidst the riot of emotion that had claimed her. But his actions, unthinking and brutish, doused her tribulation in a wave of the potent fury she possessed but rarely displayed.

"Remove your hands from me, Sandor."

Her voice was as steely as her glare and Sandor pulled his hands back cautiously. Whatever tears that had taken her in the moments prior were forgotten, in their place was something the large man was sure resembled anger.

"I address you without the titles you loathe out of respect for our history, but that in no way allows you the presumption of liberty." It _was_ anger and it _was not_ even close to being diluted. She cocked her head, her eyes all the more fiery. "You will show me the same respect - I have titles, you will use them." He stepped back from his obvious offense, his look somber, though there was no fury in him. "And you will _not_ handle me as you once felt permitted."

There was no plea in her statement, it was a fact. One that Sandor believed to his bones. He looked down at her, his face still not showing a shred of anger or annoyance or amusement... or _the Hound_.

"Apologies, my lady." The words were rusty in his mouth, but the gruff sincerity was not.

Her eyes darted over his face, from ruin to roughshod, scrutinizing his candor with cool interest, not letting one single scrap of tell float away - anything that would allow him insight. This had nothing to do with truth or lies, her scrutiny was built of something greater and he felt honoured to have her appraisal. Her approval would be seen on him as he had seen it on the men and women of the Rock already, those people proudly displaying Lady Sansa's acceptance.

 _She's their queen_. That particular truth punched him directly in the throat. _Tywin Lannister married a little bird and cultivated a gods-damn queen_.

Sandor looked at her with such gratitude, such open appreciation, that Sansa could not help but feel its sting. It leveled her indignant posturing and covered her previous outburst with the succinct inflection that was more her manner. "Your charges are elsewhere, Sandor. Until their return, you will help in overseeing our leave and travel when the time comes - and you will serve as a liaison of sorts once at court. Is this agreeable?"

"Yes," he said immediately, then remembered his reprimand from but a few moments before, "...My lady."

He was honestly trying. It would take time, but his reflex courtesy _would_ fall back into place eventually. Until then, as he looked at the tiniest of glints in the eyes of the serious woman in front of him, he knew he had best get used to being held accountable for any lack of it.

"Might be I should start making those plans now, my lady."

Lady Sansa's face gentled a fraction as her armour was reapplied. It was only momentary, but she looked more like the girl he knew in their life before, if Sandor were to judge.

And what a surprising relief it was to know that not everything had been removed or remade.

"Tomorrow," she said.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

King's Landing was as it had been to Lady Sansa in the last half of her life: utterly forgettable. But her reasons for being there were nothing short of life-altering. She stood before her queen, appropriately reverent, timely in her propriety, and flawless in her elegance. Her fealty had been negotiated, termed, and agreed upon. All that was left was the pomp and show of submission before lords and courtiers who were there for the same reason.

There had been some tense moments of back-and-forth between her and Tyrion, mostly pertaining to the sparing of lives, and then again when the time came to discuss the Crown's debt to the Rock. They wanted it to be - _they assumed it would be -_ buried with the deeds of the previous lord, but Sansa would not budge in her insistence that it be honoured. She was as unmoving as the man she called husband, and Tyrion made the effort more than once to remind her of that fact, if only to try and garner leverage.

The tactic failed to work. Lady Sansa was formidable in her arbitration and more than a little stifled in her compromise, but her intent was genuine and her compassion for the greater good of the matter was evident. She was not heartless, no, though she was certainly _not_ weak.

Queen Daenerys spoke from atop the dais, from atop her throne. Sitting almost lost amongst the honed points and curvatures, she was small in comparison and cast the image of a child playing queen. Though it was her eyes that proved her age, and her tone of voice that stated clearly _this_ Queen was not engaged in frivolity.

"Regent of both the West and the North-"

Tyrion interjected softly, "My apologies for interrupting Your Grace, Ser Brynden Tully is present and will be speaking on behalf of the North."

The Queen looked squarely at Sansa. "Why aren't _you_ speaking on behalf of your North?"

"The North is not mine to speak for, Your Grace." She chanced a glance to her great uncle, and at the confident incline of his head, felt a relief, thick and true, wipe away her nervousness as she continued, "The North is _not_ the seat of the Lannisters."

There was an uproar in court around her. Sansa distinctly heard a few lords of the West, _new lords in the West_ , testing the infancy of their fealty, baulking at perceived treachery. She also observed the Queen not trying to quell the backlash, but notably dissecting it, putting complaint to a face and that face to a name.

The lords of the West that sat on her council at Casterly Rock knew her reasons for abstaining from the rule and influence of the North. The only way the West was going to be able to carry forward under the new Targaryen Queen was to sacrifice something she would view as significant.

By removing Rykar from succession and supporting Rickon in claiming the seat, greed would be replaced by sentimentality - and _that_ would bereflected as compassion and compromise on a House wherein those traits had been absent for decades. It was a move indicating positive change more than nepotism, especially when it was forged in such a strong alliance.

The lords of the West, those of the highest standing, those of Lady Sansa's council, each knew the benefit of such a sacrifice… More so, how it would benefit _them_.

There had been rumblings of a coup when it had been known that Sansa would bend the knee. The younger lords, the lower echelon houses of the Westerlands, thought it was time to remove the name of Lannister from Casterly Rock. But those notions, those men, were cut down as fast as they emerged, actions commanded at the icy nod and approval of Lady Lannister.

As long as Tywin Lannister's youngest sons took breath, there would be Lannisters on the Rock. And those particular Lannisters had the guaranteed protection of North and the Riverlands - and the backing of the Crown.

Survival had been assured, it was now a matter of proving worthy of that consideration, and Sansa vowed to carry as much of that burden for her sons as she possibly could. Give them every advantage she possibly could. Teach them everything she had learned… as much as she possibly could.

The noisy din of the Throne Room had yet to lighten, the Queen was now viewing her audience with narrowed eyes - those of contempt, not consideration - and at length, she turned her head sharply and gave a terse nod toward the darkness along the outer wall.

The Unsullied.

Their tanned skin lent to the shadows, and it was not until, as one single entity, their spears clashed with their shields, once, then twice, and again and again, that one was reminded that those stock-still forms were living, tangible men.

Men of the deadliest kind.

Tywin required her, _them_ , to read about their enemies. Each variety. They had spent endless hours in thick tomes and brittle scrolls acquainting themselves with hairless warriors and horse armies, each whose only purpose it seemed was to breathe and fight and die.

It was something else altogether seeing those words and descriptions come to life, and she was only glad she had been prepared. The Unsullied, she found, moved like a hive. Even in pairs there was no conversation, only mirrored actions and fluid movements. But in watching them, Sansa also saw individuality. For some, their eyes were dead and bottomless, but for others, there was a spark, a glint of life amidst the rigid mechanism of their day-to-day existence.

And mayhaps, she thought, that spark of life beyond the hive was a gift from their Queen.

Whatever their cause, the actions of the silent sentries were effective - marching over the drone to regain order.

"And who are you to think to petition for your brother?"

"I am no one, Your Grace. It is Ser Brynden Tully who is petitioning for my brother Rickon. I am simply assuring you the West will remain compliant."

"You will remove yourself from those negotiations?"

"If that is your desire, Your Grace. I would only ask to speak as Regent in the West to renegotiate terms of restitution and current finance with the North, as my duty requires."

"You would give up the North?"

"I gave it up the moment I left it, Your Grace. The moment I was betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon."

"You mean _Lannister_ , a product of incest."

Sansa did not speak a word to the insult. Instead she raised a brow the barest of fractions on her serious face, the best imitation of her husband she could afford, and waited for the Queen to move forward. Thus allowing the silence between them to acknowledge the Targaryen's hypocrisy of her own familial lineage.

"You then married Lord Tywin," the Queen continued with an air of agitation.

"I was married _to_ Lord Tywin as a political maneuver against my brother, as a means to end a war."

"And heirs, which you gave. Two sons, correct?"

Sansa chewed back her instinct to protect, never shifting in her calm seriousness. "Eventually."

The Queen looked from her Hand to her Lord Commander, the. addressed Sansa in question, "Explain."

Lady Sansa took a moment. She looked to be gathering herself, strength and otherwise. "My first child was lost, Your Grace," she said baldly, her eyes leveled and her expression only slightly pinched in the pain of a loss that never seemed to fade.

The Queen faltered at her confession. It was nothing overt, a sadness in her countenance, purely subtle, but it was one of the many things Sansa was looking for; therefore, it did not go unnoticed.

"The second instance, my sons were born..." Sansa trailed away; with the words, her view strayed to ever familiar points within the room they occupied. Her voice was rough with an emotion belying the sternness of her face. Her eyes widened for only for a small beat before reeling everything back in.

"Your Hand can attest the truth, Your Grace." Lady Lannister now spoke in a manner of detachment, something clinical. "My pregnancies were not forced. I was not bred."

The Queen looked down from her place upon the throne. A place and implement that had only meant loss for Sansa, and, she supposed, _that_ particular tide would never turn. However, she did feel bereft - an empty calm. Perhaps it was second nature, unlocked by the chamber itself, to hold such a placidity under scrutiny by the occupant of that chair. Like Joffrey before, and like Cersei as well, this new royalty owned nothing of her - could take nothing from her.

Sansa had paid her due to the Iron Throne, she owed no more. And while her duty would not allow her fealty to waver or her word to the Crown and the terms they had negotiated be anything save honoured, her soul would _never_ be bound again.

"The heirs of Tywin Lannister were summoned along with you, why are they not here?"

The voice of the Queen cut through Sansa's lament, though it did nothing to jar her mettle. "They had been sent to safety prior to your arrival, Your Grace."

"Send for them." It was an order that sounded bitter.

"My apologies, Your Grace, but I will not willfully submit my children to danger."

Lady Lannister heard the familiar subtle shift-and-flex of the four brave knights who would fight to their own deaths for the preservation of her life and dignity. With them was the new noise, no less subtle, of a large dangerous man, _her_ large dangerous man, adjusting his stance to accommodate whatever the Dragon Queen decided to act upon.

Queen Daenerys went on. "I could just as easily execute _you_ , if that is your preference."

"It is." Sansa said those two words without hesitation and with more than a hint of anger.

The quiet in the room was uneasy. The shifting, fidgeting noise of men and women either moving away from, or vying for a closer position to, what was slowly becoming a prelude to carnage, seemed loud around them.

There was a feral quality to this Queen, Sansa noted. Whereas Cersei was vicious and Margaery was calculated, each was blatant. Queen Daenerys though, she was wild under her skin of royalty - baseborn compassion with an edge of highborn cruelty. The Queen reminded Sansa of her own sister. All roughened defiance and passionate righteousness, mostly blind to the important details that require patience.

"He called for you, my lady. Your _great_ lion wept and cried for you like babe for its mother."

"I expect he would, Your Grace," Sansa said unperturbed.

"He does this often, then?"

Ignoring the titters and laughter-adjusted-to-coughs, Lady Lannister addressed her new queen with every scrap of courtly decorum belonging to her. "No, Your Grace, I have never witnessed that in my husband. I only know that when _I_ was tortured for the entertainment of regency, I also cried out for those close to me."

It was then Sansa realized what she was missing: fear. She did not have it when Tywin first told her of the impending invasion, she did not have it when he left, and she did not have it when the Tyrell betrayal was revealed. She held fury and confusion and hurt, but not fear.

Her lord husband had taught her that fear was useless. There were better instincts to trust in for guidance; that fear, although the antithesis of dreams and wishes, was as equally crippling. Sansa did not believe him then, thinking only fools never obliged their fear, but here she was, fearless in the face of yet another queen who would think her better if she were dead.

"Lord Tywin will die."

"I am aware, Your Grace." Her voice was not lifeless, nor was it quaking. It was plainly neutral.

 _Keep them guessing_.

Queen Daenerys tilted her head; a minute adjustment of angle, a tiny smoothing of blatant hate. The lady before her was a mystery. Strong, yet refined. Open, yet cunning. "Then why else are you here?" Dany asked blandly.

"On behalf of Lord Tyrion, Your Grace."

There was a stifled coughed from the half-man situated beside his Queen. The look on his face both begged for restraint and offered shrewd approval.

"Tyrion is no lord," the Queen said, almost preoccupied.

"No, Your Grace, but he should be-"

"He won't be."

Sansa closed her eyes then, breathed deep the stale air she never for a day missed, and opened them once more. She looked upon her Queen without the mask that shielded her from the world around her, without a stitch of reproach.

This was her honesty; this was her offer of love and protection.

 _All of them_.

"Please value him, Your Grace." Her voice chose that moment to finally waver, as her eyes threatened to betray her. Sansa cleared her throat lightly and spoke reverently, "Please treat him as the treasure his father refused to see."

Tyrion wore a look of such admiration, Sansa had to quickly retreat behind her armour lest she be caught in tears. And though she now looked stony, Tyrion refused to hide his caring affection toward his mother.

When Sansa returned her attention to the Queen, what struck her was the young woman's smile. It was barely there, yet it changed her entirely. The severity of Queen Daenerys was brushed away, but her outward demeanour was not overly amiable either. She seemed settled. Whether in position or decision, Sansa did not know, but it was definitive in its portrayal.

"Lady Lannister, you are welcomed in your stay. For the duration and to the conclusion of our business." The Queen's words did not hold the malice they did earlier. Like that of her countenance, the pitch of her inflection seemed to have calmed in some sort of acceptance.

That calm was what she angled for, as there was one last appeal Sansa had to make. "Your Grace, I thank you. Though, I must ask-" But she was ended before she began with the raise of the Queen's hand. Her palm-out gesture an ingrained prompt to cease and listen.

"You will see him." Targaryen violet hardened a fraction in their lock on Tully blue. "Just before his end. Not prior."

It was with some effort Sansa swallowed the cusp of grief before it rallied into an evident physicality, yet devoured it she did. Officials and their court had no right to her sorrow and gloom. It was hers alone, and Sansa would never publicly display that part of her again.

The Lady of Casterly Rock stood before the Queen and bowed, her flawless curtsy part of her old-found gentility toward her new-found monarch.

As she turned to leave - Sandor at her lead, two knights at her side, two at her back - Sansa knew she should be gratified and comforted in the knowledge that her brother would be seated rightfully in the North, the end of the Stark line to define a new beginning; that her children would not be denied their succession, nor their name or freedom - another new beginning.

But it was the long sharp needles of melancholy piercing her breast bone, gifting her with agony for every jostle of movement - be it by breathing or walking - that encouraged her to tread fast and seek the solitude of her rooms.

She would see him.

... _she would see him_.

And that particular happiness tore through her heart with the hurt of it.

...

..

.


	31. Truth VI

...

..

.

Sandor Clegane walked Lady Lannister to a nondescript room in a nondescript building near the heart of King's Landing.

The heart of the capitol was in truth nothing more than a sunken pit, one large enough to house dragons and accommodate an audience to appreciate mortal destruction. Sansa could only acknowledge the twisted irony that the center of her chest seemed cavernous in its own right. Sandor had instructed her, not ungently, to wait inside and offered her one of two chairs - the only furniture within - before leaving.

The room was a small thing, its windows perched high on the walls and barely more than cracks in the stone. However, as Sansa experienced in those early morning hours, when shone upon at the correct angle the light poured in and the space was as bright as anything. Cheerful even. But she was not. For what felt like hours, but was surely only a handful of minutes, Sansa had been pacing, staring blankly at those cheerfully encroaching walls and ridiculous chairs when the door opened again.

Flanked by a no less than a dozen of the same savage warriors she had seen throughout the capitol was her husband. Or so she assumed. Sansa blinked openly at the scene, she thought she knew how their reunion would play, but this was almost like she was meeting a stranger.

Physically he was a shock. Always a lean man, Tywin was now sickly thin. His collarbone jutted out in a way it never had before, and the skin that once fit snug to his whipcord musculature now hung slack and papery. He was all angles and shadows; cheekbones hollowed to his jaw line. His overall posture told not of a man, but of a dog beaten to heel.

Yet, in striking contrast, his fingers and hands remained elegant and unblemished, and it was with that acknowledgement Sansa understood her startle had little to do with the slump of his shoulders or the deep set lines on his face and neck, but that her husband looked tired. More than that, he looked old in a way she had never seen. Lord Tywin looked as if he'd been dragged through every single one of his years, unwillingly.

Hers was an unforgiving assessment, she knew, but Sansa had not thought she would find herself faced with another man entirely. Perhaps a wounded man, in part, but not one so... familiar. A frightening honesty burrowed under her skin and brushed along raw nerves to sit static as a tingling fear at the back of her neck. A breath made of lead caught midway in her throat. This feeling was known. This was the same unnerving sensation from the first and only other time it manifested: when she witnessed her father being hauled to the steps of Baelor.

The old lion stiffened under his wife's scrutiny. Self consciousness was something Tywin Lannister had never, in his waking life, experienced and the ensuing embarrassment of it goaded his ire.

Sansa watched his shoulders roll back straight, for him to stand rigid before her; his sunken eyes narrowed, sharp as ever. The gold was burning, hot flecks in a sea of shimmering green, and the tale told there was one of arrogance, confidence, and all out power.

 _This_ was the man she knew. Beaten bloody and dressed in no more than rags, _this_ Tywin Lannister she now saw was every bit her formidable lion, commanding even the air around him.

When he had walked into the small, sunny room she could tell he was surprised with the company found there. It was only a flash in his eyes, but enough for her to discern she was not expected. Sansa felt an irrational pang of hurt, but it was quickly put to rest when Tywin twitched the corner of his mouth. She knew then that while unexpected, he was pleased for her to be there.

The guards left wordlessly, closing the door behind them. The men remained silent, though Sansa could easily hear that they had stationed themselves just without.

Lord and Lady Lannister simply stared. It had been nigh on a year since they had last seen one another, spoken, or touched. And like when she returned from the North, it was as though they were new to one another again; awkward in their silence.

The mood did not last.

Tywin moved toward her, his hands limp at his sides, his steps small and painful looking.

Sansa closed the distance between them instantly. From her new vantage point, she could see clearly the extent of his physical deterioration. Both of his eyes were not merely sunken, but blackened, the scarred remnants of a large gash that had extended from the bridge of his nose, up and over his forehead and ended midpoint at the top of his head was a sharp white line against his now pale skin. He had various cuts and bruises seemingly everywhere.

Her chest tightened at the barbarism inflicted on her husband. Standing in front of him, she placed her hands gently on his forearms. The gesture was not an attempt to assist him physically, but the comfort it offered was almost overwhelming. Equally as powerful when she traced her palms up his arms and shoulders, brushing tenderly over his now prominent collarbone, coming to rest on the sides of his neck. Her fingers danced their way along the familiar line to his jaw, burrowing themselves well into the shag of his sideburns.

He breathed deep at that singular contentment.

Her lion purred.

Tywin had neither the will nor the want to resist his body's need to lean into his wife and accept her affection. He rested his head on her shoulder and buried his face in the hair she had kept down and loose. For him.

Gods, he missed the smell and feel of it, of _her_. He brought his hands up, raising his head as he did, and cupped her face before placing the softest kiss he could manage upon her lips, fighting every urge to simply devour her. Sansa kissed him back, so chastely, so softly, and when her tongue flicked, tickling his lip, asking permission, Tywin's world bent in a whirl.

Such gentleness after moons of brutality. Such tender affection for a man like him.

 _Her_ man.

 _...and he was truly hers_.

Making soft noises, Sansa deepened their intimacy. However, when her tongue slid into his mouth, she felt another effect of the treatment given to the Warden of the West. Some of his teeth were broken, others were missing, and it caused her to kiss him even deeper, wanting to lick away whatever pain he must have suffered.

When he pulled back, Sansa noted his eyes looked more at peace. He was not agitated or frightened of his fate - not that she would ever expect that of him.

He lowered his arms to rest behind her back, hugging her into his chest. Sansa returned his embrace fiercely, fisting her hands into his thin garment, resting her cheek over his heart. She could feel him let out a deep breath and lay his own cheek on the crown of her head.

" _My_ queen."

Sansa smiled tremulously; yes, even in the most dire of circumstances, her husband had to reiterate what was his.

Oh, how mighty and proud.

She felt to reestablish what was hers as well, breathing, " _My_ king."

Sansa could feel the muscles of his face move in her hair and heard something made of a laugh and a scoff bubble from his chest. Tywin squeezed her a little harder, murmuring, "Indeed, beautiful girl." Lady Lannister was now long from being a girl, but she always found a crumb of comfort in that specific endearment.

It was her husband who, again, dictated their interaction by pulling away a second time and stepping them both toward the seating provided. Sitting first, Sansa watched Tywin wince and lower himself slowly into position on the hardback chair. Once settled he reached for her hands, holding them, entwining his fingers in hers, drawing little circles with his thumbs like he had done a thousand times before on a thousand different parts of her body. All the while he had trained his gaze on their contact of skin.

"No harm will come to you, Sansa." He focused his serious eyes on hers then. "Or our children. That, I promise." Almost bitterly, he added, "Tyrion owes his debt."

She knew this. Sansa also knew that her world as new as it was, had already been secured. The contracts had been long concluded, the signatures long dried, while all assurances and oaths had long since been stated. However, she would never correct him or tell him otherwise.

Sansa nodded in acknowledgement.

Tywin shifted again on the hard wooden chair, and Sansa could not help but notice him grimace.

"Are you in pain?"

"I've spent a year sitting on the floor, my lady. Suddenly, chairs are what I find uncomfortable."

"There is plenty of floor here, if you'd prefer?"

"I couldn't ask you-"

"You're not, my lord. I'm offering."

Tywin angled his head slightly to the side, just to see her at a different perspective. She was not anxious or nervous, but calm and definite in her offer. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he stood with as much poise as his body could afford him - which was not much at all.

Sansa made no move to assist him, no reach to help unburden his maladies. _To reaffirm his weakness_. And though some might say it was a deed born of apathy, the old lion knew it as respect. He knew it as one of the many reasons he adored the young woman who chose to carry him with her eyes instead her hands, for he would not be treated as deficient, and she would not impose that kind of insult.

Standing upright, Tywin reached for her, his hand open and waiting. The offer was more habit than anything, as was Sansa's immediate acceptance. She rose, her fingers held gently in his, and her eyes softened with the familiarity of it; she smiled, watching him pull her fingers higher to his lips.

If not for the bitter circumstance, the act between husband and wife would have been sweet.

They walked in comfortable silence to a wall just out of the sunlight, where they could watch the bright lines move with the day - something both distracting and constantly taunting. With careful ease, her hand still held in his, the old lion leaned back against the wall and lowered himself in the manner that best suited his needs: legs splaying open, as was now a habit of necessity.

Tugging lightly, he led his wife to sit in the space provided by his unorthodox position, and was pleased when she did so without care or indecision - something he rewarded with a hum of approval.

Situating herself into an accommodating arrangement, Sansa came to rest, her backside on the cold stone, her knees bent and tucked to the side. Yet as she settled with a deep breath as if to speak, her attention was inadvertently drawn to the apex of his legs.

Tywin assessed her demeanour; again no overt sympathies were afforded, instead he found concern set firmly in place. The same look she wore when earned by their boys, if they happened to injure themselves as children were much apt to do.

It was close enough to pity. He hated it.

Gripping her hand with an ungentle strength, he pressed her palm to the place her eyes refused to leave. He circled her fingers with his own, pressing even harder, showing her exactly what she must have been told.

There would be no day, in this life or beyond, that Tywin Lannister would tolerate that type of condolence. His jaw flexed, his eyes narrowed, and the old lion silently dared her to speak of it. To remind him of what he no longer was to her, what he could no longer do to her, and it was his own ill-born contemplation of what he was sure his wife was scrutinizing that shoved his fury to the fore.

There it was met with understanding, not condemnation; the kind of acceptance only Sansa was capable of - at least in regards to him - that snuffed his ire and left only the faintest of plumes. Her thumb rubbed tiny lines over the ridge his soft cock made in the fabric of his breeches, and they both turned their gaze.

Whether there was any ability in him to harden for her was well past his body's recognition and his mind's want to try. Sansa's touch was soothing regardless of circumstance, and his muscles responded by seeping out tension and allowing him to take comfort in her care.

Sansa was lost in him. Her lion. There was nothing vulgar in her touch nor was it curiosity, more the satisfaction of extension and connection. For the nights she reached out to find no one, for the days her fingers fidgeted for the feel his skin or clothing, but remained empty.

Tywin's mouth curved up ever so slightly at her effort, grunting softly as his thoughts dared turned to those of when he was whole, when she would use this exact same teasing touch... wherever the little minx thought to tempt him. At feasts, in counsel, from a deep sleep, it didn't matter, she took her pleasure - and he let her. Even with half-hearted jeers and woolly threats, she was inspired in her arousal. And all he wanted was to feel her touch, her heat, and watch her lose herself to the desire she took for herself from his body.

His eyes traced hers - how her thighs strained the fabric of her gown, the gentle contour of her hip, the plane of her torso wrapped rigid in her corset …that same corset pushing and setting her breasts just so-

With a tentative reach and equally tentative stroke, Tywin ran his fingers over the necklace whose large ruby nestled where it always had - on top of the softness of his wife's breasts. A thick braid of white gold, teased with strands of yellow...

The necklace long thought stolen, punishment for which long since doled to those who were unknowing. Tywin flinched in recognition of the miscalculation and looked at her squarely.

"A debt?"

The old lion stilled his palm over the jewel, the centerpiece, exactly how he used to when the necklace was still in her possession. His fingertips flirted with the cold metal in the same way he remembered doing before, especially when it was the only thing she wore.

Sansa smiled, but it flattened to something just shy of grim. "An investment," she corrected.

"Was it worth it?" his voice was barely audible.

Sansa raised her hand to her husband's face and stroked through the scruff and the shag until his eyes gave in and closed; it was then she returned his whisper. "Yes, it _was._ " The words cracked, causing the lion to open his eyes. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Tywin grimaced and let out a loud lungful of air. At the same time he pulled his wife close, dug his fingertips into a gown he so admired, into the flesh he so wanted, and yearned to dissolve like - salt meeting freshwater - into the goodness of her. His clever wife. She had her secrets and she kept them safe.

 _This_ was how he was reassured. _This_ was how Tywin knew his wife would never fail him.

He held tight, his pride in her becoming a physical act, pulling and pressing Sansa into a body that had never offered points of discomfort before this day.

Sansa took whatever she could from him, gladly, because it was so much better than feeling nothing. That empty pit that had taken to greeting her as she woke, that made her feel just as alone inside herself as she was in their bed, was pushed aside merely by his touch. And she welcomed that comfort, that safety, as much as the man himself.

She looked at her husband then, so beaten but not diminished, so real but an illusion all the same, and her throat choked in shame. "I didn't save you." Her whispered sob hung between them.

Tywin held her closer, his annoyance amazingly revived. "You _can't_ save me, Sansa. You know that, don't you?"

His wife twisted her fingers tightly into the rags his clothing had become, anguishing at his words. "I didn't even _try_!"

She had done exactly what Tywin wanted her to do: exploit the weakness of the new queen - her hatred of him - and save herself. He lifted her chin, and as he angled her face toward him, her eyes refused to follow, threatening to spill the tears she was swallowing hard to avoid.

"Look... Sansa..." His fingers pinched into her jaw to get her attention. _"Look_!" It worked, she held his gaze - tremulously, but held it. Each word he uttered was its own force, accentuated by the tiniest of shakes in the grip he had on her. " _You cannot save me_." His delivery was as narrow and pointed as his glare.

Several heartbeats later, Sansa could only watch, blink and marvel at the imposing entity that was her husband.

It did not make it any easier.

"I know." Sansa's truth was minute, a frail thing. Her mind moved forward taking her mouth with it as her body turned away. "I've failed. Again." Her throat tightened. "First my father, now you... At least a war will end because of me, not sta-"

Tywin gripped her shoulders, turning her more toward him. He tried to read her, but she seemed so far away.

 _Come back_.

He kissed her softly.

"Is that what you think?" He kissed her again and could not help but sound incredulous, "Sansa, speak to me true. Do you think you _started_ the war? That you condemned your father-"

"No, my lord." She muttered absently over him, looking so lost as she spoke. "I _know_ I did." Her demeanour then turned to something he had not seen in years: wooden. "I was the one who told Cersei of my father's plans to leave. I was the one who convinced him to admit treason. Don't you see?" It was a shaky breath that carried her final words, her mother's words, "I killed him. I killed _everyone_."

Her eyes were open, but unseeing, the world refracting in the tears that pooled along her lashes. Her body trembled, but she was left unfeeling. The only thing she knew was that Tywin had lifted her into his lap properly, that her body was being cradled like a babe.

He held her, he rocked her, and he had no idea how to fix her.

 _Truth_. That double-edged sword which may at once cure and kill, placate and agitate... may repair or break, completely.

Tywin cleared his throat and spoke his blunt words into the soft hair at the top of her head. "The Queen knew your father's plans, Sansa." Tywin waited a moment, pulled back slightly, glad to see his wife not so hollow, and continued, "He told Cersei exactly what his intentions were long before you did." He blinked rapidly, internally assessing his honesty, getting lost in the process. "I thought you knew... No... of course you wouldn't..." he babbled, absent of true attention, adrift amongst his own thoughts.

The old lion caught himself, wading back through the thick mire of distraction. There was no time left to horde his own secrets, no time for that kind of uselessness.

Not anymore. Not with her.

Tywin steadied himself and spoke stiffly, as she was used to. "He was betrayed, my lady. Your father tripped over his honour and landed amongst the rats."

It worked. Sansa rallied to Tywin's candor, though it cut her deep. The truth dug to the base of those old wounds, rooted them out and milked away that stagnate hurt. But left in its wake were fresh scars of doubt and upheaval. She had carefully crafted her life against the hidden shame of her own ruination, and now her husband had taken that away with a handful of words.

His honesty left his wife reeling and suffering. Tywin could see that kind of torment like daylight.

One more push, he thought. One more nudge was what she required.

The old lion always knew how to gather and bind the threads of strength his wolf needed to persist. "What do you choose, Sansa?" He smirked at her banked wrath; _this_ was the woman he dreamt of.

"To fight, my lord." The statement was cool, yet far from indifferent.

Lord Tywin leaned in and pressed his lips to his wife's temple before working his mouth to rest lightly at her ear. He held her tenderly and whispered a soft caress, " _Petyr Baelish_."

It was a name. It was a greedy condemnation. It was a debt, and the last gift he could give her personally.

Tywin felt her breathing sink and become heavy, taking in the information, duly processing what she needed of it now and shuffling the rest back for later. But the stiffness in her muscles was still there, drawn taut and making her shiver.

Her conscience then was a jagged lesion. Her own morality was tearing it open like hands clenched on either side, exposing the meat underneath. The meat of who she really was, who she had been, and who she had yet to become.

"You cannot survive under the weight of so much guilt, Sansa." Tywin held on tighter, pulled her in and wanted so much for her pain to transfer. "You have made _hard_ choices, my lady. None of which were ever _wrong_."

"H-how do you know that?" she murmured hoarsely, more to herself. As though to accentuate the question, her head lolled ever so faintly as her view rounded to meet his gaze.

His wolf was open completely, and Tywin could do no more than give her the same of himself.

The face of her Great Lion pinched and frowned in a hurt she could read on him openly, and it sobered her. The arms and hands of her Great Lion crushed her in their embrace, and it soothed her. The call of her Great Lion purred past whatever harm was clawing through him, and it strengthened her.

"You're here, aren't you?" he whispered to the treasure-of-a-girl sitting where she always fit flush - on his lap, twined around his torso, her own arms and hands seeking their rightful places on his body. She sunk into him, into the curve that was hers; her head resting where it always had on his shoulder, her breath reassuring and warm on his neck and jaw.

They so desperately held on.

The silence roared around them, crashing in waves like the Sunset Sea and how it battered a rhythm into the very cliffs that made their home. A violent thundering chorus within the caverns beneath the castle; the undulating force of nature itself that could be felt shuddering through the solid rock, and them, every time they would lay together and take their pleasure on those battered-smooth formations under a steady mist of sea water.

They held on tighter.

Time stuttered forward inviting lord and lady to relax into themselves. The manic pace of emotions having exacted the price of exhaustion.

The stripes of light on the floor before them had moved noticeably when Tywin spoke again, his words seemingly from a conversation he was having with himself. "They will turn to dust before finding me wanting of forgiveness."

Sansa did not speak in response to his statement, but instead pushed away to look at him more directly. If he wanted to talk, she would not deny him, but it was the hard edge to his glare and the deep frown that indicated he would talk of something terrible, of something gnawing him hollow.

"I am sure the Imp has tainted m-"

And how correct she was. Sansa quickly raised her hand and clapped it over his lips. She looked at him coldly, speaking a matching vent. "Tyrion has told me... many things."

Both her hand and eyes dropped, her face etched in the pain she felt at knowing Tyrion's anguish, of knowing the suffering her friend had endured before and, even more, after truths were exposed.

There was no stiffness in the body she leaned against, and when she looked at him once more she was, sadly, not surprised that to see only cold indifference set in the face and eyes of the man she called husband.

"I am a monster, girl. You had it right." His inflection was like chalk, flat and tasteless.

 _Girl_.

Sansa flitted her eyes closed and breathed deep. Such an expected way to create distance, she was almost disappointed.

When her words spilled forth, her eyes remained shuttered, and they came out in a whisper. "It's not the only thing you're built of." He did not respond, but she felt his breathing dip her lower. "I know who you are and _what_ you are. I also know your truth Tywin, and I won't allow even _you_ to mar it."

Tywin scoffed then. "My _truth_?" he spat, caustic and bitter. "If you think I am viewed as a man simply lacking _charm_ then you truly are stupid, Sansa."

 _Stupid Sansa_. She looked at her doomed husband with wide eyes that burned both in cold fury and white-hot agony, hissing out every syllable, "If that's all you are, _a fucking monster_ ," her inflection shook in its intensity, "then what does that make _me_?" An already cracked voice was strangled by the acute hurt ripping through her. "What does that make _our children_?"

He was picked apart by her every word, by her every pluck of anger.

There wasn't much left of him anyway.

"No, Tywin." Sansa raised her hand, one supple palm pushed toward his face, a gesture of indignant finality. "You're wrong."

Tywin wrapped his fingers around her hand and pulled it to rest over his mouth - he was listening, but he also needed contact.

" _You_ changed the perception of your name in light of the deeds of _your_ father. Our sons will do the same." Sansa's tone softened, her eyes softened, her fingers flexed and brushed where they lay over his lips. "They have to," she whispered, "For the sake of their own legacy," there was the smallest of quakes, "and for yours."

The pain of such honesty crumpled the old lion's heart. Sansa was his protector. She would defend him the only way she could, in the only way that mattered: she would safeguard his heritage, his birthright, by simply being the fierce and loving mother she had always been.

"I have no fear regarding my legacy, Sansa," he murmured into her fingers, before guiding her hand to rest tender at the center of his chest; a flush crept up his neck to colour his cheeks, a strange embarrassment at his previous revelation.

"Our sons will grow to be great men," she said, broken now and full of sorrow.

He tightened his fingers around hers. "It's _you_ that I am referring to, foolish woman."

She looked at him then, question plain in her eyes.

"My lady, you are a wolf turned lion. More so, you are a flame that refuses to be extinguished. A force unto yourself." He took a deep breath, looking at her with eyes he hoped parlayed exactly how he felt. "My only regret is that I won't be here to see your every potential."

Sansa knew this for what it was: the truth as he saw it. Tywin Lannister would not bestow a compliment on _anyone_ regardless of the personal cost, it would only serve to harm his prestige in the long run. So for him to say these things now was not to be taken lightly.

Her husband continued, his voice cut to a rough kind of whisper. "Our sons are _exceptional_ , and they will perpetuate in being so. Of this, I have no doubt. You have ensured it thus far, and I'm certain you will continue to accept nothing less of them." Tywin took a moment to blink back the sting that threatened to overwhelm him.

When he finally looked her, he smiled. It was the smile she recognized as the one reserved for her and their children. It was genuine and cherished.

Sansa leaned boneless against him, her head laid on his shoulder, and her fingers aimless in their brushing exploration of his chest. As her mind wandered in the comfortable silence, her fingertips drifted to worry a loose thread under where the lacing of his tunic ended.

It was odd, the thread had been weaved finely into the garment, but its direction was in complete contrast to the material. More odd was that she was choosing now, of all times, to care about such a banal detail. But she did. A slight tug on the errant string and she made out rectangle shape that puckered into the fabric.

Pulled away from her comfort, Sansa's full attention was now on the mystery - tracing the shape over and over again. When she made to draw the thread once more, a larger hand covered hers, staying her.

His eyes were not angry. In fact he seemed almost pleased by her meddling.

"It's all right. I'll show you," he said in an all too casual tone. As though this were simply another morning they had woken up together.

His fingers worked into the space between the lacing and Sansa could see plainly that what she had discovered was a pocket. A pocket over his heart. The same kind she, as a child, had dreamed of sewing into the clothing of her betrothed.

A pocket for a favour.

Swallowing hard, Sansa found herself far too lost to tell him to stop. Favours were from wives and lady loves, and in their life together she had never given one to Lord Tywin. After all this time Sansa could not fathom she was still in competition with a ghost and it flooded her with such hurt and rage and sadness. Nothing, no emotional or physical leverage could ever give her an advantage over the dead.

She did not _want_ to see his golden wife's favour. She did not _want_ to have proof that no matter how far she forced herself to journey, her existence would still be an afterthought. But before she could sob or throw angry fists against the chest she was leaning on, it was held before her - a square of fabric that her husband felt, _felt_ , he needed to wear against his heart.

Her own heart was but an echo of itself.

It was her trained courtesy that commanded her fingers to retrieve the proffered item. Perhaps her husband wanted it entombed symbolically with Lady Joanna, and she was no more than a messenger. Perhaps he wanted her to comment on it... _Gods_.

That echo of her heart became even more faint as the ache there clenched harder.

Scrutinizing the swatch in her palm, Sansa realized quite unintentionally that it was more than a simple shred of fabric. It was delicate, almost silky, but she could not discern if that was due to the wear it endured under Lord Tywin's armour or if it was a trait of the fabric itself. The stitching was fine, not cumbersome, and she knew whatever it was had been made of quality. The square had also been pressed unbelievably flat, lending her to think it was a kerchief of some sort.

Although, in turning it over she found the truth.

Lady Sansa uttered a sound created from pure disbelief. Along the top edge of the square, what she thought was embroidery was in fact a ribbon, and that ribbon was knotted in an overly familiar fashion. Her memories reeled her back, so far back. To a meeting. To an inspection. To mortification that swept itself into unexpected discoveries. To a gift left in the wake of pitiful mock-maturity she, herself, thought to front.

Suddenly she was that naive young girl again and blushed straight into her hairline.

"How..." No. She knew precisely _how_ he received it. It was an effort to get the words ordered and coherent. And regardless of aural tactic, Sansa's vision went nowhere save the elegantly kept smallclothes resting in her hand. "But... _When have you_..."

Her lion saved her from her words. "Every moment we have been apart more than a day."

Her eyes refused to leave the garment, but her mind knew his statement was incorrect - she shifted uncomfortably at that realization. They had been parted off and on since the day they were-

"Since you gave them to me, my lady," Tywin said in his serious way.

Whatever scandal there may have been at the enlightenment of such a detail was knocked away without pause or embarrassment.

Sansa had not been holding her breath, but it rushed out as if she had been.

Her movements were slow, deliberate; her face masked with nothing readable - she rose. Kneeling high, as close as she could be, very near leaning full on him, his wife looked down. Tywin angled his head back and let it list to the side, watching her. Staring at her graceful movements, at her elegant hands, as she carefully bestowed her favour upon her lord.

Her king.

The man who was going to die - for his own actions and for the sake of the lives of her and their children.

Tucking the material into its pocket, making sure it was safely concealed, Sansa looked down at him. Tywin was placid, his eyes glittered at that angle and she hoped it was a play of the light in the room. Bending her neck, she lowered her mouth to his, kissing him just as carefully as she restored his favour. She felt his hands travel up the backs of her thighs and wrap their claim on her backside.

The wolf smiled coy onto the mouth of her lion.

The lion smiled back.

Three resounding cracks on the door of the small room may as well have knocked their force directly in the hollows of their hearts.

Sansa found herself crouched lower, her mouth breathing heavily on the side of his neck; covering her husband much like she did once in the dead of winter, shielding him from death.

But this was something she could save neither of them from.

Tywin's hands had found hers, their fingers twined around one another like vines, possessing each other at the most basic of levels. He encouraged her weight against him, her chest against his, her heart matching his beat-for-beat in their attempt to regain calm.

He breathed deep. In their marriage he had compared her to nature, to the animals of their sigils... to the dead. But when his days had finally run their course, he understood that Sansa was none of those things. She was better.

She was living, breathing. _She was his_.

The Great Lion made to stand, untangling their hands in the process, and Sansa felt the crush of reality: this was the last time she would see him, feel him, smell him. It took everything to bite back the lump of sorrow in her throat, the one that would only open the pathway for tears. She rose with him, once again tangling the fingers of one hand with his as they made to the door. With each step was a heightening of dread. The culling of distance a statement toward an end.

His end.

Their end.

Standing to the side of her, Tywin brushed the back of his free hand down her cheek and neck, watching as she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

Sansa turned then, facing her husband fully, and jaw clenching as she met his eyes. _Not this. Not now. Please... Be strong_ , hermind choked out through the agony. Her hands came up to rest flat on his chest - both palms converging, covering the piece of her that covered the life of him for so very long. But they did not stay static. Pushing outward to the edges of his chest, Sansa's fingers curled to fists taking with them the material of his tunic. And with the desperation of a woman set for one more loss, she shoved him back. Hard.

Her face was pinched and skewed in her anger, Tywin was unnervingly calm. He kept his arms lowered and his hands palms-out, surrendering to her, as he breached the small distance to the stony wall.

He let her.

 _...and he was truly hers._

Sansa pulled her grip, the momentum enough to bring her husband away from the wall once more, and with a renewed strength built of a palpable fury she shoved again and again and again.

It was self pity fueled by rage. It was everything she wanted to say but had no words for: because he married her, because her brother died and her mother turned into a creature of hate. It was for the freedom he stole, and the life that was nowhere near what was promised by her father.

It was for making her strong and giving her what she wanted most of all.

He let her.

He let her pound out her hate and frustration on his body because for everything that Tywin Lannister was - arrogant and merciless and cruel - he had never, in fact, been wholly ignorant when it came to his wife.

His wolf.

And he let her.

Because all he wanted was for her to care; about what he had taught her and had given her, of course, but he also wanted her to care about _him_. About who he was despite his flaws, despite his temperament and history. For once you removed everything dark, Tywin was still the lonely little boy without his mother, forced into a being a man and to raise his siblings the best way he knew how. Which was well outside the shadow of a weak and detrimental father.

And she did care. The gods be damned, she did. He knew.

His wife's growling violence upon his person was losing spark. After one final drive into the wall - their eyes meeting for fleeting moments, her bottom lip trembling - Sansa followed the momentum and all but fell into the body she had battered, defeated and sated just like that.

Tywin did not say a word, not a protest or reprimand, simply folded his arms around his girl and found sanctuary in the warmth of her.

Sansa clawed and pinched and dug into his ribs. Around his flanks to his back, her fingertips bumped over ropy scarring, and with a noise keened in shared suffering, she burrowed into the closeness she had craved. Yet, now that she had it, after so many moons of pining, it was going to be taken away from her, and _that_ was a terrible reality for anyone.

"Just... Just hold me."

In what would be her last command to him, Tywin could scarcely conceive of disobeying.

She controlled him. It was a blatant truth to which he was no stranger. It was a truth he would take to his death and refuse to deny. Sansa lessened the onus in his life. An oppressiveness Tywin did not know was an impairment prior to binding himself to her. With that thought the Great Lion wanted to spur his wolf on, convince her to tear him open and feast, to take from within him the vital parts that allowed him to live, to do physically what she had already done in spirit - the certainty of which bothered him little to none. Instead it made him feel a loss he had not felt since the fateful birth of his second son.

"Thank you."

His voice was calm and his thumbs tapped and brushed about their familiar patterns over her lower back, his long fingers resting on the swell of her arse. Sansa peered up to him, trying to keep a grip on her emotions, a questioning look in her sad eyes. He could tell that she was struggling. Tywin smiled, broad and kind - like it was a pleasantry he offered regularly - he was proud of her either way.

"Some men live and die never knowing what it's like to exist in the presence of a great woman." He cleared his throat before continuing, "I have been granted the opportunity twice."

He shifted on his feet, looking above her head, rocking her with his sway. In that instant he looked so very much like their sons when caught in the act of mischief. Her breath caught and her fingers dug in deeper.

"I cannot..." He shifted again, clambering for the right words, calming at the feel of her gripping him tighter. "Your circumstance was not of your making, but you overcame _everything_ with such strength and grace, Sansa." Breathing hard, he flicked his green eyes at her then - in the intense way that always made her feel as though she was helplessly caught in his current - his throat thickened, his jaw ached, and he could not fight it this time. All those years ago Catelyn Stark had been right. Even through her madness she could see it clearly: whatever magic Sansa cast around her, he was not immune. " _Even me_ ," he huffed through clenched teeth.

She could not help but bring a hand between them, to her mouth - an effort to hold in a sob. He swallowed hard, over and over, and she could see his eyes become watery. It was now _his_ lip that shivered in time with overwhelming waves of emotion. She felt his skin grow hot through his tunic, his lungs fought to control their pattern that was gradually tipping to erratic - the Great Lion was ready to falter.

Tywin felt her hands before he even registered they had moved. His wife grabbed hold of his face, pushed her fingers into his side whiskers, and met his mouth with the crush of hers. Her kiss was a demand without words, powerful and passionate. Her tongue swept over his lips as she angled her mouth to an almost seamless fit. Her body pressed into his, telling him in no uncertain terms that he would yield to her.

He opened his mouth, and she stole his breath, her tongue teased his until she stole that too - sucking and nipping at it from her side of the kiss.

It was frantic with an element of threat.

Tywin carded, then buried his fingers in the tresses he had for so long slept nuzzled in. He took the lead and slowed their pace, his lips working over hers. His hands slipped downward, drawing tender lines, roaming her back as his mouth kissed softly from the corner of hers across the line of her jaw to the sensitive skin at the lobe of her ear.

Her lion soothed her panic, in turn soothed his own, and held her with the unhurried stillness she found only after they had laid together.

His wolf was settled. Her manner staid.

She was ready.

Tywin straightened his stance, raised his chin, and spoke to his wife in the most confident whisper he could summon. "It has been _my honour_ , love. Truly."

Sansa felt her heart lurch painfully as she watched her husband retreat behind the armour he had forged and donned for almost the entirety of his life; the same armour he helped her build for herself and taught her to use. His eyes darkened, his mouth became a thin line, and in an instant his mien folded inward, making him calculated and cold.

The infamous Lion of Casterly Rock. The Warden in the West. The Hand of three kings.

Lord Tywin Lannister.

Without turning to the door, simply reaching, he only had to knock once before it opened. The guards appeared again and pulled him roughly from the arms of his wife, from the clutch of his wolf and into the hall.

There were tomes of words she felt she had to speak, but in the moments it took for Tywin to be handled and pushed ahead of the warriors at his charge, there was nothing left to be said that had not already been swallowed by the widening fissure inside her chest.

She was growing cold in the sun-drenched room and had to grip the jamb of the door to ensure she would stay upright, staring helplessly at the form of her lord husband being led to his death.

" _Tywin_..." His name tore out of her, so she thought; forcefully roared and full of conviction, she so wanted. But it was hardly set to voice, nothing more than a billowing of air.

He did not look back.

Stepping away, in a scene from outside herself, Sansa closed the door and gasped as the air around her suddenly felt heavy. She was alone.

All of her emotions were sitting in the pit of her belly, churning and fighting for priority. She didn't even know who she would be any more: Sansa Stark, Sansa Lannister, wolf of the North, lion of the West. She felt both lost and found all at the same time, and it threatened to wash her out into a sea of confusion.

Sansa closed her eyes to the empty chamber, reigning in every thought and emotion she needed in order to move forward.

Her husband was being led to his destruction, but she knew full well that Tywin Lannister would be remembered. Remembered for his achievements and victories more than his failures; bards would still sing his refrain. Regardless of moral validity, tell of the man and his accomplishments would live well beyond this age and the next.

As she stood with her thoughts Sansa contemplated some of the first impressions she carried for the man. She had been petrified of him initially. No, she amended, frightened of his reputation. Sansa corrected herself once more, that the truth was she had feared him then. She had been meek in his presence in those first days and moons, but more accurately was that there had always been something else, something... of depth. Even during their first meeting - _their first provocatively_ improper _meeting_ \- he had shown her a glimpse of the man he really was under the legend, beyond the intimidation, past the songs and stories.

Her marriage, _her husband_ , was clouded with far too much nefarious shade to ignore, that was a given, but what was also a given was the fact that she would adamantly refuse to regret it, him - _them_.

The knowledge one would gain from simply being on the periphery of Tywin Lannister's life was invaluable. She became his most trusted ear and advisor. Her education in years with him was beyond conventional value and worth even more as an asset to her children's future.

He taught her to think critically, adhere to logic, act decisively, play to her strengths, and to never forget that the only person who would save her was _her_. But more than that, more than most could ever understand, was the fact that he gave her the security and love of a family again. In the beginning of their marriage so many people, including her husband, made sure she knew that she was worth no more than her womb and the direction from which she was born, and it was Tywin himself that proved those assumptions false.

The birth of their sons dismantled the Great Lion in a way that forced him to rebuild himself a different man. He was happy in the company of his sons, in the company of his wife; he _allowed_ himself to enjoy what he had set aside the first time. It changed him, but Sansa could not, _would not_ , wonder if that change was for the better. After all, he was not sentenced to die before.

She thought of that equally. Tywin would no longer be. Her constant wealth of counsel and strength would no longer be there for her to consult, to whisper to in the darkness, to feel wrapped around her or deep within her. At that, Sansa understood there would be a part of her life, her heart, which would be nothing more than a void.

His absence played as a physical pain, a crushing pressure under the muscle and bone of her chest.

She missed her husband. Her lord. Her lion.

It was an absurd memory that graced her then, in the most absurd of times.

She remembered a morning at Casterly Rock a few moons after she'd returned from the North. A memorable morning because she woke early, a rarity in itself, but the greater wonder was that Tywin had still been in their chambers.

It was a morning that was his alone, free from commitment, and instead of finding her husband diligently sifting through parchments in the great solar, she found him seated at the small table within their bedchamber.

The table had been arranged by the eastern windows and she could see that he was sitting in no more than a pair of light breeches. If there was a way to steal sunlight, Tywin had found it. He bathed in it, sitting there, his posture slacked and his view somewhere in the clouds outside.

So much was the lion immersed in his contemplation, he did not hear Sansa approach. She padded quietly, stopped silently, and reached out to tease a finger along Tywin's jaw. In times before, her unexpected touch would have earned an angry reaction; however, this time paid fully with a reach of his own. Without looking away from whatever marvel he found outside, her lion draped his closest arm around her waist and pulled her the rest of the way to his side.

It had looked as though Tywin was being held prisoner and could not turn his attentions away from the world beyond the window. Yet, in the meantime his hand had come to rest on her backside and his thumb rubbed light circles.

Without much pretext, his grip tightened and he pulled her into his lap, a place warm with the sun as was his bare chest. Sansa curled into him, serene and easy, not really fighting the want to close her eyes and sleep again. She dozed and could feel him moving in little shifts and adjustments. So it was no surprise when she finally blinked past bleary to fully awake and found him gazing at her the same way he had been looking out at the morning.

His only word to her was as he tugged on the fabric at the middle of her bedgown was the gentle instruction of, "Off."

One corner of Sansa's mouth rose as she shimmied from his lap to stand directly before him. With only a brief hesitation, she raised her hands high above her head - an indication that Tywin had been commanded without words in a procedure he had inadvertently started on their wedding night. A swift and singular motion had his wife equally undressed, another saw her straddling his thighs and her hands braced on his chest.

They took a moment to look at each other. Nothing brazen, no matter the nudity, merely a silent conversation in the heat of the morning sun.

Tywin had slid his arm past Sansa's waist, making sure to drag the barest of touches along the soft skin of her there, easily reaching the items he'd set out while she was sleeping. She could hear a faint _clink_ as though something were being stirred, but she could not take her eyes away from the pools green with flecks of gold - the ones that had tunneled to the very foundation of her.

Sansa watched, captivated as his arm returned to their periphery holding an implement she didn't recognize, covered in a foam she had never seen the likes of. Settled in her quiet awe, she sat mesmerized as he spread a thick lather of soap high on his cheeks to the edge of his whiskers; over his mouth and the span of his throat. Every so often reaching past her again to grace the room with that same ringing tempo. The motions were perfunctory, she noticed he never once looked at the mirror behind her that had been angled to be used.

Tywin cocked an eyebrow and said not one word as he reached to replace the horse-hair brush on the small table, next procuring his razor.

Sansa felt a fool, more so a child, having her husband mold her fingers to grip the folded blade in the proper fashion. But there was a certain intimacy that compensated when he placed his own hand safely around hers, brought the sharp edge to rest on his cheek and slowly swiped downward.

She smiled at the loosening of her tense muscles and marveled at how Tywin was not nervous at all.

Methodically, they shaved his face. Some strokes were short, some long, and each required the razor to be wiped afterward. A job that fell exclusively to her after only a few passes.

The old lion tucked in his lips to provide a smooth surface over his chin, where there was the final patch of soap on his face. Sansa had hunkered close, dedicated and meticulous in _this_ task as she was with any, and had made the final swipe before she noticed he had let go of her hand entirely.

Blinking and involuntarily wiping the razor clean, she found herself suddenly anxious at what she had done. So wrapped up was she in her wary accomplishment, that when Tywin spoke it startled her.

"Now the neck," he mumbled lax into the air.

Her self-consciousness twisted through her then. "What if I cut you?"

Without bothering to tilt his head forward, Tywin drawled, "If I don't survive your attempt to barber, rest assured you will be provided for."

It wasn't just the words that caused her pause, but the sense of whimsy in which they were said. He was being jovial, teasing her, and Sansa had to take a moment to appreciate it.

When he noticed she hadn't moved nor made any attempt to shave him, the old lion nodded forward. His face was still relaxed she noted, yet there was also an unexpected look in his eyes. There, set in the green, flickering amongst the gold, was the trust she so deserved. The trust she had so endeavoured to earn. The trust that was now so easily seen, deep-rooted in the way he regarded her.

In the way, she had realized then, he had regarded her for quite some time - and _this_ was what it looked like when he freely admitted to such.

When she pieced it all together it seemed far too easy a puzzle to have gotten away from her. Her husband's emotionally erratic stints were because of trust, or _mis_ trust as the case may be, but it was of _himself_ , never of her. She had simply been convenient quarry for his frustration.

Placing the pad of her thumb on the point of his chin, she tipped his head back again.

At the angle he showed her, with the pressure he guided her in, Sansa made clean methodical lines down the length of her husband's neck. It was beautifully tranquil, the scrape of the blade against his skin, and for every line that she finished, Sansa tested the quality of her work by lightly brushing the backs of her knuckles along that silky expanse.

He purred in reply, so caught up was he in the comfort of her, he barely registered when she'd finished, nor when she wiped away the dregs of foam. Comprehension only came when she massaged the after-oil into his freshly shorn skin. The sting was a good kind of pain, the kind he had been used to since before his wife had been born. More a consolation now, but he couldn't help but gasp a pleasant hiss when a flutter of lips followed her fingers.

Everything about her was temperate. Everything about her was reassuring. And in those precious moments of that day Tywin felt a shift. It was internal, but wasn't physical. It was painful, but not fatal.

It could no longer be denied.

Straightening, he took her wrist in his hand, equally tender in his grip and intention, and immediately his thumb traced circles. Such a soft moment made warmer by the intensity of the morning sun radiating through the glass of the east-facing windows. Tywin then lifted her wrist and pressed his lips to where her pulse was thrumming. There was nothing lustful or salacious in what he was doing.

It was caring affection.

It was wanted.

In a drawn and considerate motion, the old lion used both his hands to position her palm and splay her fingers over the part of his chest where she could instantly feel his heartbeat. Looking at him, Sansa noticed his eyes showed an element of uneasiness, a despondency; his breathing was faster than it should have been. This was a man she did not know, a stranger in familiar skin. This was a man who had shed his mask for her.

For _her_.

There was no context or further contribution, emotion was whirling in him clearly, his jaw worked but said nothing, his thoughts and implications simply a raw taste sitting on his tongue. Tywin had all but confessed his feelings the day Sansa bore him sons, but she had held hers to the bone, leaving him to assume.

This was his question to her, asked in the only way he knew how: in silent absolutes.

As Sansa sat there, almost completely naked in the sunshine, facing the man who married her - who bound her and set her free all at the same time - she removed her mask as well. She felt her tears streaking her face before she knew she was crying. Through the blur she found his free hand with hers, held his wrist in the iron of her fingers and sobbed into the air between them.

They each had to know. They each had to be sure.

It should have been an inquiry of the most rudimentary kind, fundamental in a marriage, but it wasn't. Theirs was a relationship of intricacies and sophistication. It was labyrinthine at its core and another language altogether at its surface.

Sansa kept locked away deep inside herself the kind of truths she had learned by lesson and experience were weaknesses; the kind that could be used to kill. This was one of them. With her words stayed, she pulled his wrist and nestled his palm against the center of her chest, a mirror of his own hold on her. One that looked to cause him pain. His expression rattled her in a way that made her feel unconfident, but was soon quenched to relief when she understood he merely needed reassurance.

In a rush of sentiment, Sansa bowed forward onto her husband - her arms swathed his neck as his wrapped around her waist - and she nuzzled into the smooth skin of his neck. Its familiar smell and feel and fit, a comfort she had never known before her marriage.

Their fingers roamed, their breathing became heavy, and the union of skin-on-skin built a gradual intensity. When their mouths met, that mounting passion manifested into an incomparable sense of completion that tore from them moaning acknowledgement. They kissed until their lips were red and swollen, nipping playfully at each other's accomplishments while recovering from the haze they'd roused.

Tywin inclined to his wolf and splayed his hands wider to support her back as she leaned to accommodate the gentle touches of his mouth; first along her collar, then licking and sucking over each breast in turn. His tongue flicked as he suckled, and Sansa only registered the hazy groans as her own when she'd made a conscious effort to rub against the stiff line of his erection.

Such contact flared his arousal and forced the lion to hiss and moan into his wolf's sternum - straight to the heart of her.

In a span of time that distorted with pleasure, Tywin had lifted and was carrying her to their bed, they were mere strides from the edge when Sansa finally noticed. Yet, like most things in their life, even intimacies came with reality. As such, he stumbled causing her to unwind her legs from around his waist and find her own footing - which happened to be on top of his.

There was an excess of profanity from them both, then a rapid still of calm when they encouraged and regained their sense of playfulness.

If the fumble were to have happened outside their bedchamber the result would have been bloodshed. But in the company of themselves they dispensed with their armour and became new people, different people. People who could laugh and tease and prod each other's irritations like children.

 _Trust._ For the lion and his wolf there was nothing more important, nor precious.

Sansa backed her way onto the middle of the bed. Laying flat amongst the rumpled coverings, stretching and displaying her body for him. Her hands trailed down over her breasts, her stomach, and lower. Lower to her smallclothes - she could see his cock straining in anticipation.

Tywin leaned into the side of the bed, his thighs preventing him from bending or falling forward - he watched her. Watched her fingers slip under the material at her waist and her thumbs hook the garment's cusp. His mouth went dry, his vision narrowed to only her, his wife, and how her hands were slowly lowering a piece of clothing that was, in that one speck of time, the most offensive thing in existence.

She raised her hips, pushing her underthings down over her arse; he palmed his prick through his breeches.

She let her knees sway together as she pushed the fabric further down her legs; he did not know he had torn open his lacing until the felt the cooling air around his cock.

She rid herself of her smallclothes; he did not care where they landed, he would willfully sleep with them in the bed linen as long as he held the sight before him.

Sansa watched the utter concentration of his every move, the fluctuating depth of his every breath, the expansion of the black in his eyes, crowding the green into narrower and narrower rings. It was all of those things that let her know her husband was focused on not one single thing, save her.

Only her. Only Sansa. Only his wife.

Her heavily lidded eyes narrowed a fraction, her mouth curved in equal subtly as her knees separated tortuously slow.

His cock throbbed at the display.

Tywin gave no command to do so, but he rode his body's craving, crawling over the bed like a predator to prey, gulping in air at the arousal caused simply by the touch of his fingers to the skin of her thighs. He settled with his mouth at her cunt and the smell of her want sitting heavy on the back of his tongue with every inhale. That slick seam of flesh called to his need, the baser temptation that rules most every man. Slipping his hands under her arse, Tywin lifted his catch in order to feast. And while his tongue slipped into her wet furrow, her legs tightened around his shoulders and her hands scrambled for purchase at the back of his skull.

The lion dined on his wolf. Every part of his mouth savoured the most tender parts of her; he played with his food, teased it and rolled his tongue to coat his palate.

Only when Sansa's gasps became craggy and uneven, when her fingernails bit into his scalp, when her legs flexed for leverage and her hips matched the move and sway of his mouth, did Tywin adjust one of his hands. The first and middle fingers of that hand paid the debt of her initial tease, pressing into her with a torture of their own - knuckle by knuckle, giving his wife the friction her body was begging for.

When his lady arched, rigid and shaky, Tywin added a third finger and sucked directly over the most sensitive piece of her, laving it with the flat of his tongue, flicking it with the tip. Her moans prompted his own, and those sent her shaking again.

Sansa relaxed slowly from her peak, whimpering blithely. Her lion laid warm between her legs, watching. His mouth no longer on her, so as not to ruin her descent. His fingers still working, gently now, stroking at the tiny shivers inside her. With the slow blinking and opening of her eyes and the lazy smile, Sansa gently tugged her command to her husband.

The tender pull at the back of his head and neck was an instruction well learned. The lion stretched out above his lioness, her hands still apt to guide him - his face so close, his lips had no option other than to meet hers. Her mouth was as greedy as his, tasting herself on his tongue, licking and playfully biting his lips until he growled his need.

Shifting again, Tywin leaned on one arm and used the other to take his cock in hand. Grinning as she thrashed, as he teased her with his prick, stroking but never quite entering her, though always slipping upward to nudge at her hard little bump.

In the end even the most divine cruelty will turn upon its administrator, and Lord Tywin felt his need take hold. Pressing firmly, the tip of him notched at her entrance, he took in the view of his wolf - her eyes closed and her smiling mouth sighed in expectation.

"Open your eyes," he ordered tenderly. "Let me look at you."

Blue eyes, his sky, blinked open. Her mouth stayed in a smile, but she tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and the Great Lion wanted nothing else but to be inside his girl. He entered her gently, slowly, with every consideration, and watched her teeth dig a little more into her lip, felt her fingers claw a little more into his nape, heard her moan their joining into the sunlight of the room.

Hilted into the warm wet squeeze of her body, Tywin readjusted to carry his weight on his elbows, resting his hands at her crown where he had always enjoyed burrowing his fingers into her soft hair, and brushed his thumbs along her hairline over and over again. Only when he was ready did he hunch his hips, working them both into the best kind of delirium with his rhythm, his depth, and his speed.

Her lion had lowered his mouth to her neck and murmured words into her ear as he took his time moving within her. They were nonsense words, gibberish she never thought she would get used to hearing from a man like him. She had no recourse for them, ever, other than to hold him tighter. To pull him onto her skin and show by action that he wasn't alone.

"You mean more than anything to me, Sansa."

The statement was barely there, it only just existed on a wispy exhale. And when her husband whimpered that raw rush of truth into her neck Sansa knew she held in her hands a soul that was just as fragile as her own, she felt the responsibility of it.

"I know," she whispered in return.

Tywin stopped moving mid-stroke, levered himself higher on his elbows and peered down at his lovely girl, his eyes sliding from fear to utter devotion and back again. "I don't think you do," he whispered back. His low voice was not just a reflection of hers, but a testament to the secret he was trying so desperately hard to hold close to the heart. " _More than anything_ ," he choked. Sansa looked on, her eyes so warm and so caring, _for him_ ; his face contorted in pain around those words, as though they were made of broken glass.

He felt her arms slink up behind his head, and watched her arch her back slightly - whatever she was to do, that was not a natural position in which to do it. Then he felt it. Her fingernails, with the effort of a feather, dragged from the front of his bald scalp to the base of his neck. Never once forcing more pressure, never once hesitating in its trail.

Tywin Lannister shivered above her, inside her, and Sansa saw first a fine tremor travel his body that was soon chased by goose flesh, then heard the airy sigh that was had been a solitary gift before that moment.

There is something to be said about baring oneself well past the nakedness of the flesh. It is nothing to be bereft of clothing, but to peel away the layers and expose your soul - your vulnerable, unprotected soul...

With a soft tug, she lead him to rest his head once again in the dip of her shoulder. Her own breathing was becoming unsteady even as they lay unmoving. Her heart knotted, and with every push of her pulse she felt that knot twist in her chest. Sansa wrapped her arms around the neck and head of her husband and set her trembling lips to his ear. "I love you."

It was a shaky confession. But if not now, then when could she finally speak honestly? There was no need for courtly propriety in their bed, and no one there to judge their truths save the Sun - and _she_ had been witness to man's horror and grace since the moment the gods bestowed life on the lands beneath her.

Sansa had sealed her fate with three words. But it wasn't a fate from the Great Lion that prompted her hesitation or worry, it was the fate she had condoned from herself. Her feelings were never a matter of Lord Tywin's approval, she had built a cage around them and it ensured they would only be dependent on her own acceptance. However, it was one thing to keep emotional revelations silent, it was quite another once they've been admitted. Once personal epiphanies are given a voice they're given life, they suddenly became truth.

And the truth will _always_ cut both ways.

Sansa felt Tywin's body relax above her, but curiously, his fingers tightened a gentle grip in her hair as he pressed his face harder and bared his teeth on the smooth skin of her neck. As though he had been untroubled and bothered at the same time. When he spoke again she knew there was a knot twisting viciously inside him, too.

" _Please_ ," he begged in a tone she had never heard before. Over time, Sansa had become familiar with them, his fluctuations of emotion, but this was altogether new. "Say it again," he keened into her flesh.

When his face rounded to hers, Tywin wore a look of purely unguarded credence. It had been startling just how much of himself he was confiding to her and again responsibility asserted itself when she understood the magnitude of such a task - the same one she was trusting him with.

Her hands slid to cup his cheeks, her fingers finding their own comfort in his side whiskers as her thumbs traced little lines just under his eyes. "I love you," she said in earnest.

Sansa watched Tywin's eyes as they softened in their adoration, as he shuddered out all the air in his lungs, and felt his body settle on her ever so slightly, moving himself inside her with a minute stroke.

"More than anything," came his trembling pledge.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, she met his intimate sway with one of her own - a tiny churn where they were joined. Her hand cradled the base his skull, ushering him to rest once again on the place on the curve at the base of her neck, the place she knew to be his. Her nails dragged their teasing friction down his nape, and farther, between the blades of his shoulders. Her eyes fluttered closed at his blissful groan, her own pleasure then rushed ahead. Her limbs cinched around him tighter while she squeezed him intimately from the inside as well.

Her mouth smiled at the airy gasp of her name.

Both his prayer and curse.

He threaded his arms behind her knees, hooking them high and close on her torso. His mouth at her ear, their bodies pressed so impossibly close, his voice a rumbling seduction. "More," he said, pushing forward bodily, filling the deepest part of her.

Sansa had turned her head to find his lips with her own. Her tongue coaxed entrance and played the same rhythm inside his mouth as his cock played inside her quim.

The sounds in the room were that of the soft slap of skin, the wet noise of arousal, and the muffled moans of two people finding an instance of pleasure before they donned their masks of apathy.

Their tempo crumbled and their mouths broke apart to allow heavier intakes of breath and a louder chorus of gratification.

As Sansa flushed a deep red, digging her nails into her husband's back, Tywin felt the first fluttering clenches of his wife's peak. In thrusting his own erratic pattern of release into the heat of her, both knew they were living yet one more moment of certain change.

Of necessity, and of trust.

And of admitted love.

 _Absolutely_.

No, Sansa conceded in her terrible, lonely reality, _that_ memory was not absurd at all.

The admission of love.

Love.

 _...a fools word, but the concept is rather sound._

Theirs was, as with every single piece of the puzzle that built their existence together, a love formed and cut to fit them solely. Nothing of convention, nothing of tales or from the lips of bards, but a vital part each of them.

An acceptance made in order to live. In order to survive. To survive in a world that encourages hesitations and doubt, only to use those same attributes toward your demise.

Their love was a silent affirmation of caring, of affection, of unbending unity and tempered strength. Nothing ever served itself as _love indefinite_. There were never declarations beyond that warm and sunny morning, but there had been actions.

Actions and movements and gestures and knowing. There were compromises and learning and adjustments and frustration - an awful lot of frustration. There were also blinks of thoughtfulness and heartbeats of tenderness and an awful lot of understanding. There was closeness and intimacy, and times when even the words that had been used for lifetimes to describe such things paled in retrospect of their lovemaking.

 _Making love_.

Perhaps if you swept together all of those things, those tiny grains of time and function, pulled them into themselves and piled them like their sons would pile sand in the calm inlet shores around Lannisport, perhaps that would define them. Maybe it was the culmination of everything stacked high and brought down with the slightest of waves, only to be restacked and built again, sturdier every time, that added up to their interpretation of love. Maybe that was exactly what love was for everyone. She did not know.

All Sansa knew was that there was an agony inside of her that would not be quelled by deliberation or consideration. It was leagues beyond physical understanding, dwelling purely in the realm of emotion. That horrible snake once again ascended the cavern in her chest, curling into itself, pulling tight, merciless in its constriction.

Her heart was breaking.

Yet even as her knees gave out and the floor got closer, as her throat strained and her lungs ached with the grief her body had been fighting so desperately against, she already knew.

She knew she would heal.

She knew she would be strong again. Once more she would adapt and overcome. Not only for the sake of herself this time, but also for those who called her mother.

 _All of them_.

Lady Lannister would pick up the pieces of her broken self and evolve again, and with that freeing affirmation came a terrifying sense of guilt.

 _You cannot survive under the weight of so much guilt..._

 _Sansa came back ever resilient_.

But first she would have to let herself shatter, let herself rend to the acceptance of every fragment and detail of suffering that awaited her in this horribly familiar devastation.

And fracture, she did.

Absolutely.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sandor entered the room in which he left his lady only to find her on the floor, distraught and wailing her sorrow into the stone beneath her knees.

He paused, not out of fear, but out of the shower of infuriating helplessness - of knowing he could neither dent nor remove her grief. Though he would do, if ever there were a way. He chose instead to carefully kneel beside her without touching, to simply be a presence for her in her misery.

The room itself was nowhere near the pit Lord Tywin was being led to, but it was open enough to the sounds of the city, to the impatient chants of the crowd gathered for the death of a pride of lions.

Starting of the cull was distinct, with the crowds going into fits of volume. First was the repeated moniker of _kingslayer_ and _sisterfucker_ \- ending in a resounding cheer signifying the death of golden knight. It was followed by _whore queen_ , then _little_ _bastard king_ , then a lull when they had no defined slur and opted to simply repeat _Ser Kevan_ until the man's life was no more. So it went for hours, the call for countless others as Lannister after Lannister, and slews of military leaders and anyone unlucky enough to have been associated with the name in a meaningful manner met their end.

With every death, Lady Sansa became quiet by degrees. Her sobbing petered to hiccoughs to sniffling, then to nothing at all. Although her body remained folded into itself, a grotesque parody of prayer.

A shift both in the air nearing early evening and in the crowd outside the walls of the keep made Sandor feel antsy. It was the same type of surge felt on the skin in the moments precluding an impending strike of lightning. It set Sandor's teeth on edge and caused him to glance at the door he knew he had shut and bolted.

He watched Sansa tense in the position she was in, she knew as well as he what was coming, what this lightning strike was set to destroy.

Sandor raised a tentative hand to his lady's shoulder and, in finding her receptive, slowly gathered her to him. Her angle was awkward, she was boneless, but he did not care. Pulling her upper body farther onto his lap, he cradled her head, pressing one ear into his tabard and covering the other with his hand. He could at least try to spare her the cacophony of it all.

When the noise of the crowd dimmed then slowly, ever so slowly, met its crescendo in _The Rains of Castamere_ , Sandor knew Lord Tywin was being tied to burn. The Little Bird was quaking at her own realizations, and all he could do was hold her tighter. His hands pressed harder and he was sure he was hurting her, but she said not one word, moved not one fraction to impede his attempt to block out a world getting louder around them.

The cheer that followed reverberated through his body, through his mail, straight into his charge. It lasted, that audible torture, until he felt his muscles shake from the strain of clutching her so tight.

That kind of torment had to be unspeakable, he thought. And as though to accentuate his meandering mind, Sansa's lamenting sobs returned with a vengeance. At a complete loss, Sandor found himself clumsily petting her shoulder, suddenly very aware of his inept compassion.

Yet, even through the distraction of his attempt at comfort, Sandor managed to find irritation. It baffled him that Lady Sansa - the woman he found ripe with power, who replaced the fragile girl he lost - was mourning a man who quite literally forced himself upon her. It was then, in the exact same thought, he acknowledged himself a fucking hypocrite.

He was ignorant to the details of her life with the old lion, he knew.

She would share it with him if she wanted to, in time perhaps.

Sandor had patience enough for that now, for her now, and he would not fail her again.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Surrounded by Dothraki the Great Lion stepped out of the darkness and took a deep lungful of air. Not stagnant like damp air in the tunnels he'd just traveled to arrive at the pits, this held life, but for only a moment. Where he stood, at the bottom of the bowl, it should have been cool. That deep in the ground even the most stubborn heat couldn't penetrate the natural chill, but here and now it bore weather no better than the cramped pack of Flea Bottom on a sweltering day, and with another step toward his judgement, Tywin gagged down the smell of spilled blood and burned meat that hung, thick and curdled, in the abnormally stifling heat.

The pit was broad in width and concave at an easy slope, allowing an audience to collect and gather along the sides on steps hewn from solid rock. As Tywin could see, those steps moved like waves, affording no room for anything save the endless undulation of the curious and morbid. Those who had already seen their share throughout the day but were greedy for more.

He walked.

Tywin walked and he tried not to notice, tried to stare only straight ahead, but as stained red as it was - a colour always worthy of his attention prior - the large wooden structure was hard to miss. Those before him met the mercy of the headsman before their bodies were scorched by a beast, before their forever yawning faces were lined up on pikes to greet him as he was led to his own place amongst the dead.

No. He would be shown no mercy. There would be no reprieve for his torment, he would meet the beast full-on. And lose.

Tywin walked with no mind to the scorched black ground on which he tread, nor the piles of ash - some small, some large - that with every step were kicked to clouds or heralded by a clatter of bones, only to be tasted and smelled anew. The lion plodded through the dust of his family: his first and second born, his grandchildren, his brother, his cousins, choking down the acrid taste left in the ash. He could only assume the more pungent sourness was residue of dragon's fire.

In a burst of sudden wonder, Tywin lived a tragic flutter of childlike anticipation at the thought of seeing dragons, only for reality to eat that sentiment alive.

He had barely halted when his arms were bound in what had become familiar lengths of leather. Instead of allowing them to be pulled back behind him though, he mustered every bit of strength he could and hugged his hands close, tight to his chest, cradling her there against him. The barbarians were not to be confounded in his defiance and simply fastened him as he stood to a rough stone column punching up from the ground.

By digging his fingers into the comfort hidden above his heart, Lord Tywin knew he would not be alone.

Alone.

For as much as the Great Lion felt he wanted nothing more than to be by himself after the death of his first wife, he also conceded that the peace he found in his marriage to Sansa was truer than what he found in solitude. He also conceded that every once in a while, far more rare than ever known, a cold-hearted man could be thawed - tamed and claimed - by a wisp of a girl with fire in her hair.

 _Sansa_. She flooded him.

Trussed and immobile, Tywin felt nothing but the constant breeze over Casterly Rock. He heard the laughter of his children and saw nothing but the golden sun painted low in the cloudless blue horizon.

The first time Sansa ever sought his hand to hold it, for no other reason than to knit their fingers together in simple fondness, he looked at first their hands then her. She had held his glare, offering herself up to his unforgiving scrutiny, then smiled like the girl she was. Of course he had snarled and scoffed at her, in her face, and told her she was a foolish child - though he never let go of her hand.

The Great Lion took in a great breath and although his face remained serious his mind smiled wide and genuine. The day was comfortably warm now, in his mind. Even when the snarling shade moved to enveloped him, his day was perfect.

And with what sounded like a gale off the coast of the Rock, Lord Tywin lived his end.

The scorch was quick and consuming, and his mind focused only on one person, one name. If he allowed himself to succumb to the flame his agony would ricochet for the duration of his death.

No.

Sansa.

His lioness. His wolf. His wife. His lady.

His lover. His friend.

The flesh of him was snagged and pulled back. Ribbons flagged, turned from pliable to brittle then finally to ash at the force of the incinerating wind.

Of the world he occupied for more than six decades, he could no longer see, no longer hear, and no longer feel. Though he knew his body was falling. Bones exposed, cartilage burned away, the structure of him refused his heft no matter how light that burden was becoming. He did not know the logistics of it, how far down or in which direction the descent was, but his mind seemed to keep check on his equilibrium.

There was no breath in him, that function seemed to stop at the first sign of heat, but there was no urge for him to suckle for air either.

Sansa.

 _She_ was his air, his breath, his balance.

His mind was darkening, a starless night creeping further inward at the edges. It wasn't claustrophobic, that squeeze of murky nothingness, because through the ink was a pyre.

He laughed - it sounded just like him, that voiceless chuckle - what humour it was that he conjured comfort in a flame when it is the very thing to destroy him.

What humour, indeed.

But his comforting flame moved nothing like the fire in a hearth or the fire from a dragon. It moved like the sea, like the waters of home.

Home.

 _Kissed by fire._

 _Built of fire._

 _The lion_ _truly was lucky._

 _For he'd died long before this day,_

 _Having drown in her waves of auburn._

 _..._

 _.._

 _._

Epilogue to follow.


	32. Epilogue

...

..

.

"Is Aunt Robyn a bastard?"

Lord Tysan Lannister quirked a smile at the small boy who squirmed subconsciously against his father dressing him for bed all the while peering up at him with eyes so like his own.

"She's my sister, Ty," he scoffed lightly at his son.

"I know, but her father isn't the same. That makes her a bastard, right?"

He was only seven, but his uncle Rykar had begun taking him to Lannisport on business and the gods only knew what his son was learning from the mariners. Tysan laughed to himself at the picture in his mind of his wife's reaction to her son slinging words like a sailor, and his twin grinning encouragement to the boy. His bride may have been wild by blood, but she had learned propriety from his lady mother. If ever the boy was doomed for his lack of decorum, it was between those two. The only leeway he'd been afforded was from Lady Genna, and that was because despite her winter years she was as shameless as Rykar in her coaxing.

"You're right Ty, she has a different father." He carded his fingers through the pale blond waves of his son's hair. "But your Great-uncle Rickon petitioned the King to legitimize her - and Uncle Aaryn too. They're Starks, not Hills, you know that."

"Why not Lannister, like us?"

Thinning his lips slightly, taking in a deeper breath, Tysan hoped his words would inform his child not complicate his understanding. "Because your grandmother was a Stark before she was a Lannister - before she married my father - and she wanted them to have the name _she_ was born with."

The boy blinked a few times, meandering through that path of particular thought only to offer another. "Grandmother says I look like him. That when I'm thinking, that I look just like him." He beamed at his father, "Do I? Look like Grandfather?"

Tysan cocked a brow and smiled wide, teasing, "Your grandfather was bald as an upturned bowl." He then tickled his fingertips down his son's cheeks. "And had thick golden whiskers all the way to his jaw."

His son giggled and squirmed even harder, then became serious - scrunching his nose in confusion. "Then why would she say that? I'm not bald. I don't have whiskers."

"Maybe because there are times when you do little things and it reminds her of him. You have his eyes, like I do-"

"Was he a good man? I want to be a good man." The interruption was spoken with the sincerity that only children can muster, and Lord Tysan had to swallow back the darkness that threatened to spoil this precious time. He knew the horrors his father wrought throughout his life. When he and Rykar had been grown enough to hear the truth, their mother had not lied to them when asked, but Tysan's own son was nowhere near ready.

"He was a _great_ man." Tysan smiled at his son. "A great man who achieved many great things." He paused only briefly, thinking of his own truth. "And an even better man to those he cared for."

His son had taken an interest in the lacing at the neck of his tunic; the boy spoke absently, reiterating what he found important in his father's words, "He cared for her."

"Your grandmother was very young when she was married to your grandfather." Tysan had drifted in thought and the words were out of his mouth before he considered them fully.

Young Tywin Lannister stopped fiddling with the laces in his hands and looked at his father squarely. In that instant Tysan was catapulted back to a memory of his own sire. _You indeed look like him, boy._

His son spoke almost gravely, "They _loved_ each other though... Like you and mama."

It was a statement, not a question, and the older Lannister felt the conversation suddenly become uncanny. Tysan closed his eyes then, allowing his mind to travel, sweeping dust from the recollections he was looking for. He could see them, his father and mother, in moments they thought their children were distracted. He could see clearly the smile on his father's face when his mother was preoccupied and not paying attention to her husband. He could see the way he looked at her in the rare instances when he would pull her in for a kiss or an embrace made of equal parts severity and desire. He could see her adoration when she would touch him; brush her fingertips over his own fingers, hands, arms, chest, neck, face...

Small moments of history, _his story_ , and Tysan cherished them all.

"Yes Ty," he smiled out the words, "they loved each other."

In a swift movement, and subsequent giggling, father scooped up son and walked him to his waiting bed. In an uncommon mood of compliance, little Tywin lay down without complaint, fuss or negotiation. However, the reason for such unlikely placidity was standing at the entrance of the room.

"Is the little lord ready, Tysan?"

The Lord of Casterly Rock approached his sister where she waited in the doorway, grinned at her, ribbing, "He's conned you again?"

Robyn Stark raised a brow, her normally serious face returning the slightest of smirks as confirmation of his suspicion, and Tysan wondered just when it had been his baby sister bloomed to become so much a woman.

 _It's because she's wearing a gown_ , his conscience laughed out. His sister was raised amongst boys, played amongst boys ten years ahead of her, and Rykar was unforgiving in his stance that she be allowed breeches and adventure. Their mother had been surprisingly accommodating to the demand, but wore a look of something akin to sadness whenever she watched over their rowdy horseplay - more so when Rykar began teaching Robyn archery and skill with a blade.

Though Lady Sansa never said a word against her daughter's preferences, only encouragement, she also took meticulous care ensuring Robyn not only knew the role of a lady but excelled in that duty.

Sidling beside his sister, Tysan did not have far to look down. Robyn stood taller than their mother, but not as tall as either Tysan or Rykar, and certainly not as tall as Aaryn - still a boy at four-and-ten, he all but towered over most men already.

Like her Stark brother, Robyn had dark hair. Where Aaryn's was black through and through, Robyn's looked inky in the shade, yet in the light, at the proper angle, it hinted to the auburn of the Riverlands. She could be two people with the tilt of her head, and it served to make her the best kind of mystery. And although her blue eyes could not be called Tully they were ever sharp, ever fair, and wonderfully unforgiving. For a young lady of she knew well the play and gambles of both men and lords; better, in fact, than most men and lords.

She was confident yet demure, exciting yet studious, and had all manner of suitors, from lands they had never heard of, vying for the hand of the she-wolf. These traits, Tysan admitted honestly, were what gave his sister advantage over her brothers and leverage against the rats, and prepared her for the time when she would leave the safety of the Rock and the circle of her family.

Rykar had been knighted at seven-and-ten and remained securely at the side of his lord brother. With the continued guidance and support of his mother, Tysan had stepped into the role of Regent at nearly the same age.

As soon as Aaryn began to toddle there was no doubt of him becoming to be a warrior. As though to confirm it, as soon as he could, Aaryn spoke of his dreams, of being part of the Kingsguard just like their slain brother, Jaime. The boy had always been, and continued to be, very much a shadow to Rykar. With the same type of enthusiasm for sport and mischief, Aaryn took to swordplay like breathing. The difference between them being Rykar flowed like water, mesmerizing to watch, whereas Aaryn moved through men like a storm. Not clumsy, mind, his way was quick and fearless and never held hesitation, and even though their youngest sibling _did_ have moments of bitter jealousy and palpable frustration, he also possessed a gentleness of spirit and a sense of fairness that was every bit their mother. A quality that all but ensured Aaryn would wear a white cloak at the same age the Golden Lion was anointed and given his.

"Your son spends too much time with his uncle Ry," Robyn smiled as she stepped past Tysan, walking to greet her nephew.

"No," he drawled in a tease. "He spends too much time with his conniving aunt."

Robyn looked over her shoulder at him, once more raising a brow then scoffing in a way learned from her older brothers, a way that was undeniably Lannister, "I'll be sure to tell Genna you say so."

Lord Tysan huffed out a loud, genuine laugh as Robyn settled with a practiced ease on the side of little Tywin's bed. Her eyes narrowed in playful judgment at the boy. "Ready for your story, bug?"

It was a name only Robyn was allowed to use. His son loved his aunt like no other and her endearment was clung to with an extraordinary possessiveness. Rather telling since the boy was not afraid to make the offense known to whomever thought to use it besides her, regardless of where that person stood on the scale of station.

However, instead of answering her question, his son asked one of his own. "Are you a bastard?"

Tysan stifled a groan and observed with interest what would come next.

The innocent way in which young Tywin's voice carried the question merited a smile from his aunt. The type of smile shared by all in their family, one that was kind and inviting. Robyn leaned down over the boy and spoke in a tone that twinned the look she wore, "Do _you_ think I'm a bastard?"

"No," the little lion said honestly, shaking his head to reinforce his feelings. "You're my aunt."

"Then that's all that matters, bug."

Tysan could not help but be caught adrift in the warmth of the two, his son and his sister. There was as much age between aunt and nephew as there was between he and Robyn, but the gap was negligible in terms of love and affection. A truth for all the children of the Rock, no matter their fathers. The thought of his siblings and the thought of his sire found Tysan losing more and more footing in his current surroundings, slipping into distraction as he focused on the images playing in his mind.

His memories flooded him then.

One of his earliest, he and Rykar could have been no more than four, was one of his most defining. It was the only time he had seen his mother lash out at his father. They had been supping in their private chambers and Tysan recalled himself asking - he could not remember of which parent - when he and Rykar would have a brother again.

His lady mother had grown big with a babe, and he had gotten excited when she let him feel it move in her belly. He remembered the reverence his father had for her, the way his fingers would touch where the baby was sleeping, and how his mouth would twitch - and sometimes smile.

His mother always seemed to be smiling when she was with child. When she carried Robyn, and eventually Aaryn, it made her even more beautiful - everyone in the castle always said so - and it was the truth of it, not flattery. But that first time he was to be an older brother, by more than moments anyway, was what Tysan would remember most. Perhaps because the child was a full sibling, someone else also made of his own lord father. He didn't love his Stark siblings any less, he simply remembered that love at that time differently.

When Kevyn Lannister was born, labour had been difficult for his mother. It took days. Servants ran back and forth with linens and water or stood frozen in nooks and galley-ways muttering about _all the blood_ and things _happening again_ , and at the time Tysan didn't know what their fear meant.

The third day their mother was in childbed, when their nurse took he and his brother to bid goodnight to their father, they found him in his personal solar, his arm resting on the mantle of the large fireplace, his face buried in the bend of his elbow. Lack of sleep and unexpected interruption had Lord Tywin screaming in his way, the way that did not require any volume at all, threatening the woman until Tysan felt the hand he held shaking and heard the young nursemaid begging forgiveness, begging for her life.

Through all of that, Rykar let go of his own designated hand and ran to their father like it was any other day, as though that type of anger were an illusion and the youngest son saw only a game. Their young nurse had been horrified, too horrified to even move, but as Rykar made to climb his father like a tree, the nurse let go of Tysan and fled outright.

The youngest son had almost scaled his father's breeches when he was rescued by strong arms and strong hands. And in those hands the rambunctious boy had calmed almost immediately, then made a reach for the rough whiskered neck that meant his father had been awake and occupied in one place for longer than a day.

Tysan thought his father would scold Rykar; that he would scream-quiet and make him shake like their nurse had, but he did nothing of the kind. Instead the old lion acquiesced to his son's affection, hooked his arm under his legs and let him hold on. His brother laid his head on their father's shoulder and began to pet his _mane_ with tiny fingers. Lord Tywin had taken a deep breath then, his eyes far away, and had leaned into the touch of his son.

There had never been a time prior that Tysan wanted to be bold and reckless like his brother. However, then, as he remembered looking on while Rykar sat upon the arm of his serious and cool father, the oldest twin hated the cautiousness so many praised him for.

His mother lived. The baby did not.

Tysan had woken a time later, curled with his brother on one of the large chairs in their father's solar. He smiled at the smell of Lord Tywin, his doublet had been tucked in and around his sons, but that smile quickly faded when he heard the old lion question the Maester sharply as to the health of mother and child.

The Maester had spoken low, but not so low as to be unheard, and said, "As per your directions, my lord, when the choice had to be made, Lady Sansa was spared."

"The child perished?" His father sounded so very tired.

The Maester hesitated, then whispered sadly, "Yes, my lord. A son."

Next was heard the sound of a door closing, then Tysan heard the voice of his Aunt Genna. "I am so sorry, Ty-"

"Can I see her?" His father no longer sounded weary, but had the voice that let his sons know he was agitated.

His aunt sighed heavily, "She's weak and resting just now, I'll come for you when she wakes... Or if you're needed."

"Genna, was the child... Was he... _Again_?"

It had taken only a moment for Aunt Genna to comprehend and move quickly to reassure, "Oh, Ty. _No_. No, the babe was all health. It just took too long."

There were muffled words, and Tysan was sure there was an embrace being administered, as his father had grumbled and his aunt held a voice of light admonishment. Soon after that the door opened and closed again, and Tysan heard his father's footsteps getting closer.

Curling more into Rykar, the older twin pressed his face into his sleeping brother's shoulder to help keep his eyes closed. Lord Tywin always knew when they were awake, even if they were pretending, so he had to try much harder so as to not be caught eavesdropping. The footsteps ended close to the chair, and Tysan made a concerted effort to breathe slowly, hoping and hoping his father wouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary. It was another victory altogether that he didn't flinch when he felt the large warm hand brush gently over his hair.

The touch was soothing, like how he would talk to them or rock them before they slept, and the little lord relaxed even more, regardless of the circumstance. He did not remember falling asleep, but he did, contented. And it was that same fuzzy happiness that had prompted him to ask for another brother in the first place.

It was the viciousness of his father's instantaneous reply that shredded that contentment tenfold.

" _Never!_ "

His lady mother didn't say a word to the outburst, but she threw down her cutlery, stood and stormed away from the table.

Tysan's child-self had been terrified. He'd never seen anything but poise and love from his mother, and this was something shocking. He was certain that both he and his brother started to cry - or perhaps it was just him - as they watched their father rise from the table as well. Tysan had also been certain, in that long ago moment, that he was going to be punished severely, not only for his display of emotion, but for making his mother so upset. But the old lion hadn't spared his children even a single glance, merely strode quickly to his wife. Lord Tywin caught her by the arm, and Tysan saw clearly how she fought to be free of his grip, and knew without doubt that he had bawled openly and loudly then. He didn't want his father to hurt her because _he_ had said something wrong.

The Great Lion did not harm his mother though, he hugged her. Tight, like a vine, pulling her into his chest. She had struggled and balled her fists where they were tucked between them, but his lord father would not let her go, not for anything. And Tysan remembered watching his father's head slip down cheek-to-cheek beside his mother's, but on the side he could not see, and his mother's face gradually soften from where it had been locked in fury and grief.

He did not know what the old lion was saying, but he could see the back of his father's neck going pink, then crimson. Lord Tywin's fingers were clasping and releasing where they lay on his wife's back, and his four-year-old sons thought it looked an awful lot like what they would do to stem the hurt of whatever injury boys were apt to inflict on themselves at that young age. After what felt like forever, his mother wore a look of sadness again, though not as severe. She had even brought her arms up, draping them around his father's neck. Tysan recalled vividly his mother stroking her fingers from a point on his father's head that he could not see to the collar of his doublet where the hot, red skin disappeared.

Reflecting as a grown man, as a husband and a father himself, Lord Tysan knew that whatever words his sire spoke to his mother at that time were built of truth and honesty, and that they had hurt _him_ equally.

The hands that were clenching at his mother's gown slowly moved up her back, to where his arms swathed just below her shoulders and his fingers cradled her head. His lord father shifted slightly then, pivoting his lady mother so her face was pointed toward his; so her lips were aligned to his.

Their sons looked on, stunned out of their fits of weeping. Through his tears and snot, Tysan crinkled his nose at the display of intimacy between his parents, but it was Rykar, the fearless one, who spoke.

" _Stop biting her!_ " roared his brother, something tiny and true, and he'd heard his mother and father scoff in airy humour - at least, he was sure that's what he heard from them.

Delicate peals of laughter roused Tysan from his reminiscence; the sound of his own son expressing joy, a sound the Red Lion would live and die for. He focused once more on the room around him and watched with a certain fondness his sister undo the effort it had taken him to calm the boy to the point of sleep - her hands sweeping in grand gestures, and her voice changing pitch and intonation to emphasize whatever story she was feeding his child.

In watching their mutual excitement and glee, the Red Lion could appreciate the value such instances held, which were more than worth the cost of any disruption of rest.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tysan moved from his son's chambers, navigating the corridors from the high-perched living area on the sea side of the castle toward the common rooms on the main levels. In his journey, his mind bandied the topic of his father. He remembered clearly the last days he had seen him; the days before he set out to kill the dragons. The image of his mother came to him, holding the hands of her sons as they watched the Lannister host leave.

It wasn't until they were many years older that Ser Daven told them the truth, that what they had watched from the battlements was in fact the rearguard and that their father had actually left many hours prior with the vanguard. Tysan remembered his exact flush of anger at that truth, of being lied to even if he were a child, and that same vent of rage was snuffed out as the story in mind unfurled to its completion - telling that Lord Tywin had spent the hours up to his leave sitting quietly in the room of his sleeping sons. That he endured the settling pinch and weight of full plate armour to count as many moments with them as he could.

As a man, Tysan still choked down bitterness of the fact that his mother knew they waved at strangers, but he also understood his mother's desire to let her children keep their hopes and happiness.

Even as they traveled _to save the North_ , his mind chuckled sadly, he and Rykar never doubted that their father would return. As a boy he feared the beasts, but nothing was a match to the Great Lion. In his mind he could also see with horribly clarity the way his mother looked when she came to retrieve them from White Harbor, alive and well after the dragons had quieted... noticeably without her lord husband.

She had smiled her love to her children and her brother, even Aunt Genna, embraced them all and wept with the joy of seeing them again. Yet when she was alone or caught in thought, she would look so empty, so incredibly bereft that it made Tysan feel the same way just for looking at her. But given a heartbeat of time, Tysan would watch with no small amount of awe, his mother swallow her grief, fold it up and tuck it away in order to focus on the hope that remained kindled within the people around her.

He knew then, at an age not yet two digits, his mother would always be his hero.

Lord Tywin was gone; Lady Sansa remained. Though, some would say the old lion never died at all, that his wife was every bit the fabled man. And to a very succinct degree, Tysan was apt to be of the same opinion.

He recalled a specific instance while they were readying to leave the North; his mother stood talking to her brother Rickon in one of the large court yards that ensconced Manderly's castle. The young man towered over her, his massive wolf standing high about her waist.

Both beast and man were wild and unpredictable. The entire time they were hidden with the fat laughing lord, his Uncle Rickon's wolf emitted a constant low growl. It wasn't a noise of warning so much as it was a sound to remind you the animal was near. But as his mother stood with his uncle, smiling and talking, and touching and smiling more, Tysan had watched her absently reach up, like it was a usual occurrence, and stroke her fingers through the fur along the direwolf's neck and back. He remembered being riveted by the motion of her petting the fabled creature over and over. Her fingers wiggled with each pass, and with the motion the noise from the beast gradually faded to nothing.

No one noticed. The deadly wolf, the wild animal his uncle took Rykar and he to watch hunt game larger than any he had ever seen, was calmed by the hands of his delicate mother. Only now, as a grown man, thinking upon those uncertain times, Tysan recalled that singular incident with an echo of familiarity.

The same gentle motions of his mother's touch - her fingers each caressing paths of their own - would also find their way into the shag of hair at the sides of his father's face. Lord Tysan marveled at how he had never made that connection before and was truly elated that he could remember something so significant so many years later.

His lord father would calm at her touch. She could bring him out of a shaking fury without so much as a word. They were private moments, the few times he was witness to that particular magic. His mother would stand to face the man all others feared, her actions fluid like the sea, her demeanour cooling like the air above it, and she would reach up and trace her fingers down the side of his face.

Once, he remembered, she used both hands - one on either side - but the other times she only needed one. And his father's face had transformed. Melted from a pinched, blatant rage to his usual seriousness, then finally his father would look at his mother with the same eyes people sometimes wore when looking at him: reverence of a kind, ingratiation, fear... _worship_.

His hand subconsciously drifted to clutch the heavy steel key he still wore around his neck. The key to a place that now locked away and kept safe the treasures of his own life.

Tysan missed his father.

He was hardly older than his own son at that time, and he wondered now how his mother had never let her grief affect her family. It took the passage of years for him to understand the type of wreckage his mother held together in that time. It was the sinking and raising of herself, willing herself to overcome her tempest of sorrow and loss that Tysan found so extraordinary.

 _She is the strongest person I have ever met._

A statement true enough, but for the longest time his mother was also afraid; never publicly and barely in the presence of her children, but there was a fear to her that could be seen sometimes. She had freedom after Lord Tywin died, a precious new thing, and it took her more moons than she would ever admit before she understood that it was _hers_ \- that she was allowed to have it. That she was allowed to enjoy it as she pleased, and that no one could take her new self away or force her to set it aside.

With the help of others around her, people she trusted, Lady Sansa learned to live again. And once begun, she refused to bow to the whim of anyone on the matter.

Including him.

As Tysan grew older, not anywhere near an adult, just outside the blinding shininess of childhood, he hated the man his mother kept as their shield, _as their pet_. To him the giant beast was infringing upon what was his father's.

Where Rykar took to Sandor without hesitation, Tysan grew to become suspicious and wary. He revolted against his mother's wish to treat his shield with respect and started summoning and commanding him like the dog he'd heard named in the whispers and titters of servants and knights alike. The insults had no effect on him though, he would heel and stay and sit as his small charge directed - as if the degradation was something he was used to.

Unable to get a rise out of the brute, unable to show his mother that the man had no place with them - that only Lord Tywin was deserving of her friendship - Sandor's compliance infuriated him as a boy

Tysan now scoffs and cringes equally at his behaviour then, but as a boy he loathed the Dog. So much so, he ignored the reality that his attitude and actions were hurting his mother; more than hurting her, in truth he was breaking her heart.

It had come to a head one random evening when the Dog made his mother laugh. The words of his lord father rang in his ears, _...it is your duty to protect your mother, even from sadness..._ , and this, this _boor_ thought to usurp him in that pledge and take his place. He roared as much as a boy could, first at Sandor, then, as he felt his anger control him, he spit vitriol straight at his mother.

"You disgrace my father!" He had seethed. "You... You... _Whore_!"

It was the most hurtful, foul word he knew - until then, not yet spoken openly - and he watched his mother bring both hands up, one covering her neck and the other covering her mouth; as though trying to keep from coming apart. But her eyes went wide, then they watered, then she began to sob.

 _...it is your duty to protect your mother, even from sadness..._

Tysan had no time to consider what he had done before he was shouldered violently off his feet. For an instant he thought the Dog had been unleashed, but when he opened and centered his eyes, he was confused to see his brother straddling his chest; his blue eyes, so much like his mother's, were brimming in such a frantic kind of anger Tysan knew, he _knew_ his behaviour was something that would _not_ be swept away, would _not_ be forgotten behind a smile and the bond of family.

Everything was slow, stuck in the thick mud of focus, and he watched Rykar raise his fist, twist his body at the waist, then unfurl the coil as his punch landed squarely on his mouth. He tasted blood, but that was secondary to the fascination of seeing the fledgling beginnings of the unparalleled soldier his brother would eventually become.

The fascination was short lived when the second and third punches landed in and around the same spot.

He gawked; his brother was suddenly levitating, flailing against the wings that made him float, and a booming voice broke whatever trance they were in.

"See to your mother, boy." It was the voice of the mutt he hated. It was a command, telling his _brother_ to perform the duty that his father gave to _him_.

Before he could say a word, Tysan himself was floating too. He could feel his heels dragging on the ground here and there, he could see the ceiling, first of the large sitting room they were in, then the corridor without - each, he noticed, stained with black pools of soot from where oil lamps, torches and candles had been placed for generations. However, it was the constricting pinch at the front of his jerkin that became his sole worry.

The Dog had his giant fist buried in the fabric there and was carrying him like one would a sack; a sack of _anything_ , even a boy. The large man was striding fast, his limp no longer a burden, and when Tysan looked to the ruined ugliness of the man's face he understood why.

Even with the young lord's flow of taunts and disrespect, Sandor never looked any more than impassive, but his eyes right then were burning with a dangerous fury. Any guards, servants, and soldiers they passed offered no help to the sack-of-boy, their _liege_ , and stepped away from the seething Hound marching with purpose.

Tysan had felt the need to make water. He felt that this man was about to kill him, and no one would stop it from happening.

The trek ended when the petulant little lord met the dirt and sawdust of the inner sparring yard. It was a jarring thump that caught his breath; the clattering thump that landed beside him only lent to his pique. Turning his head, Tysan saw his sword. It was the second sword commissioned for him; the first had been waiting for him when he was seven. It was the finest castle forged steel, and a scaled replica of his father's golden hued blade.

Dragging himself up from the ground, he noticed the dog panting and waiting with a blunted training sword. Looking down, he furrowed his brow at the live steel in his own hand then back to the dull length held by the man across from him.

"You best kill me, you little cunt." They were the only words the dog spit at him before he stood at the ready.

Tysan's anger had consumed him. He charged at the man wearing nothing but light leathers and swung with everything to damage him, to kill him. To rid their lives of the vermin that had infested it.

The length of time that passed was unknown, but in the end it was the boy who was on his hands and knees retching into the loose dirt, and the Dog who stood without a scratch and barely perspiring.

"I'll be here tomorrow, and the next day," the Dog had sneered as he crouched before his lord. "And the day after that. You will be too."

Tysan peered up, Sandor's eyes were wide, and the grey seemed to darken. "You take your rage out on _me_ , you fucking animal. Shame your mother _ever_ again, and I will _end_ you." It was all a low menacing growl. " _Believe that._ "

He did. Tysan believed it true. But his ego and his anger were still in the forefront, and he hated that bloody dog even more.

Every day he found the beast waiting with his practice steel, equipping Tysan with live steel. They would spar until Tysan gave in or could not stand. There were never any words; the anger simmering in them both was enough to speak volumes.

The days turned into moons, and the moons eventually turned over a year.

A full year of hating the giant man - who would stop to correct the young lord's stance or his blade position so the boy would know how to better slay him - all because he made his mother laugh. The horrendous crime of making her _happy_.

In that year there was no conversation between his mother and the Dog while Tysan was within earshot. There was no rudeness or teasing from the dog that would make his mother scoff and admonish him in mock seriousness - like there had been when Tysan was younger; when Sandor was just Sandor and he would lift him high to get a better view of Lannisport from over the battlements of the Rock.

As a man reflecting, Tysan could see clearly that Sandor had always been there for him, for Rykar as well, then again for Robyn and Aaryn, but as a child that specific clarity was luxury he had not yet been afforded. And as it turned out, there would be no time for easy restitution between the man and the boy - that valley was swallowed in snow and ice, besieged with a walking terror.

At the end of their tenth year, the twins knew what it was to be truly cold; both as something felt in their mind and something weighed in their bones. Winter struck at such a devastating pace, ravens froze mid flight with the news and families fled for the South leaving meals to freeze on the table.

Though it was what followed them that separated legends from facts.

Children and women and soldiers were packed on any water vessel that would hold them; gold and food were packed as well. Lord Rickon's children, babes just newly weaned, were put in the care of Tysan and Rykar. At the time Tysan felt that their leave was a scramble, but there had been too much put into motion for the plans to have been offhanded.

The only thing that did not get packed away, safe with everything else, was their lady mother. Because their father was gone, it was her responsibility to care for and protect those in the West who were left behind; to help defend the North and the Riverlands - to ensure they had a castle to come home to.

It was the only time, then and since, that Sandor ever raised his voice to the Lady of the Rock. Tysan was not in the room, both he and Rykar were in an antechamber, but they heard the words of what was a one sided struggle for power.

Sandor must have known his efforts would be wasted, but he was as stubborn as the rest of them and never left things unsaid. Lady Sansa never met the Hound's bellows, her words were soft and muddled through the door, but whatever she had said had calmed the big man - or merely rendered his attempts futile.

Although both Tysan and Rykar heard Sandor clear at the end; something they had never heard from him before, said in a way that would never be forgotten.

" _Please_."

Their shield begged their lady mother to board a ship with her sons. _Begged her_. The Hound never begged, _you_ begged the Hound - for leniency, for your life - and it was with a single word Tysan saw the Dog once more as a man. It was with a single word the sons of the great, _the dead_ , Tywin Lannister knew absolute fear. And because of that single word they held onto each other, those brave little lion-boys, and wept like the children they were never truly allowed to be.

If they lost their mother too - this time to ice not fire - they would not be the same. They would be as dead as the northern fiends and amble just as aimlessly the rest of their days. Yet each boy knew they'd not convince her to leave either, their begging would be as useless as Sandor's. She had more than the duty heaped upon her, she was the hope of the people entrusted to her care.

The day their boat sailed, they left behind the only parts of their lives that mattered; waving at their mother standing stoic on the pier - and continued their waving down to the shallow docks to Merik who had also refused to leave even though he had passage.

Their hearts broke, adding to their suffering, but their mother told them there would always _be_ suffering and the only choice they had in the matter was to give up or fight. They were lions, they were wolves, and so they fought as they could - being led away from danger in order to survive once again.

The heirs of Lannister were gone more than two years, homed on the hottest place they had ever known - then or since - before word reached them that the winter had retreated. No one truly believed a winter didn't last years, but they also said it wasn't a true winter to begin with; that evil brought its own weather.

Throughout their return journey, the boys were fed tales of what had happened, of what they were returning to.

Stories of the Queen and her dragons sacrificed in the North to save the land she'd invaded. The twins did not share the same sentiment that most did, praising her as a martyr, as a mother to those left fighting the frozen horror; the boys knew her as their own horror with her own monsters. In their eyes, the death of the Dragon Queen was a debt paid to both them and to their mother.

With news of the northern battles told by passing seafarers, they also learned of the loss of their brother - the Queen's Hand - and their uncle - the Lord Commander of the Nightswatch. They heard of the new King. A king who walked to Casterly Rock over the frozen Sunset Sea, built his army there, and walked again to reinforce and win the North just as they were slipping. Some said this king was the rightful heir to the throne. King Stannis: a dower man who simply refused to die - even by Lord Tywin's hand.

Gossip from the West told of devastation, and as they sailed to cooler and cooler waters, there was no telling what they were to expect. In the end, it was their lady mother who greeted them on the same pier where she had bid them farewell.

But she was not the same.

Their mother was so thin her gown hung from her frame as though it were being stored, not worn, and her eyes held a hollow fear and wariness.

The grown lion shivered in the waning sun of the lord's solar as though he himself had felt the true cold of that endless night, that unfathomable winter.

The only respite from their hesitation at approaching the husk of their mother was when she smiled. She smiled with warmth, and she wept from her heart, embracing her children with a fierceness and love that felt like they had only been gone a day.

Looking at the people of Lannisport, they were easily as thin as Lady Lannister. The truth was unfettered, their mother starved alongside her people and would not see them suffer any more than she. Her selfless acts and decrees within the years of dark and terror would make Lady Sansa a legend in the West - a stunning counterpoint to the legend of the late Lord Tywin.

The first order of duty upon their return was to board another boat and set out for King's Landing. Tysan was to meet King Stannis and bend the knee at the side of his mother.

They had been in the capital moons after their fealty was sworn, and Tysan recalled whispers of hearsay that Lady Sansa was being courted by the scowling King, that she was to be his Queen.

He and Rykar were assured that they were nothing more than rumours; his mother told them they stayed on in King's Landing because she was building new trade with the Lord of Highgarden and the delegates from Dorne and the Vale. But the moment the Vale's entire emissary party were found slaughtered at the edge of the King's Wood, his mother packed them all and abruptly left for home.

There were to be even more rumours, viscous ones, when they returned to Casterly Rock with Lady Sansa noticeably with child.

He remembered his mother deciding to have the child, but not marry.

The Lannister bannermen were furious, frothing of new Baratheon bastards and conspiracies of Flower babes. There were some, more stupidly courageous men and women who thought to point fingers closer to home, and other's who were discreet but no less vile in their gossip about their mother's betrayal to King Stannis.

Tysan equally recalled his mother, the Lady of the Rock, being aggressively confronted by Lord Crydene for her decision to flaunt a bastard. Then looked on with the rest of the assembled lords as she barely blinked and had the man detained in the lowest of their cells for a fortnight; extracting an amercement from his coffers to be paid to a Lannisport orphanage for his troubles.

When she gave birth to Robyn, as his sister wailed her first breaths, Lord Rickon was present in the capital in order to appeal to the King for a decree to legitimize her as a Stark.

Unsurprisingly, this had always been his mother's intention. Just as unsurprising, was that there was no mention of bastards, no rumbling in the slightest actually, when Aaryn was born. His siblings looked of the North, so for them to bear the name Stark seemed appropriate, almost as though his mother planned it all along.

Whatever her reasons, they would remain her secret.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lord Tysan blinked at his surroundings, and for a moment wondered if he'd been sat static throughout the night and into morning. It took a moment to affix a time of day. It was the height of the summer and daylight stretched well into the evening, meaning he'd only been lost in his mind for an hour at most.

Breathing in deep through his nose, the Red Lion leaned back in the chair that had been his father's, doing the duty the man entrusted to him. Yet his eyes refused to focus on words or parchment.

His mind was restless, his memories would not be ignored.

The year Tysan turned six-and-ten he became Lord of Casterly Rock and was only a few years from the responsibility of Warden of the West. At the same time, the Brotherhood had encroached too far onto the lands of his home - stealing crops and livestock, terrorizing crofters on the furthest edges nearest the Riverlands - and his mother supported his decision to strike and push back the menace.

Sandor stood with him at the time he rallied his banners. He was between both he and Rykar when they rode out, a thousand men strong. He was also there when the battle raged a league away and their encampment was raided; when Tysan stood his ground like he had been taught and took the life of a man bent on relieving him of his own.

His brother had already spilt blood, had his first kill fending off raiders during a summer spent at Crakehall when they were four and ten. It seemed a fantasy then, killing, a tale told in the winks of bolstered men and snarls of those whose trust was buried; stories regaled by the old knights and drunk lords at every feast and tourney they had at the Rock. The notion sounded of excited whispers amidst the brothers when they dreamt aloud in the blackest hours before morning.

And Tysan wanted to know the fun of it.

He asked Rykar what killing was like, if it was exactly how they'd planned, and watched as his brother lost the smug smile that defined him, as the shine in his eyes that always danced with life was extinguished.

Sandor bid him an answer, one rasped from the darkest part of their room. "Send a soul to the Stranger, boy," he'd said. "Then you have the right to ask."

And it was in the very same moment he dealt death with his own hand, felt the hot sticky spray of blood drench him in that horrifying responsibility, he knew the utter vulgarity of his question two years prior.

When he fell to his knees and shook and wept into the gore-soaked bracken; when he choked on the bile that plagued him in his guilt and horror of sending the Stranger that soul, it was his shield who was there to comfort him, in his way. There were no soft words, but an abundance of gruff advice and opinion.

More than anything, relief came by way of camaraderie in the grimmest of experiences.

Sandor remained. His shield was there when he took his oaths as Lord of Casterly Rock, and when he took more oaths becoming Warden in the West. When Tysan married, Sandor stood off in the shadows, yet in his line of sight while he pledged his vows to the Seven. He was there when his own twins were born and helped carry the grief when one of them succumbed to illness not a year later.

And though his limp is more pronounced now, though he no longer carries the title or obligation of his personal shield, though his hair now matches the colour of his eyes, and his coarse demeanor has not flagged even a fraction... Sandor remains.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The sky was streaking in vibrant shades of orange and red when the door to the solar opened to admit a tall black-haired knight. Tysan didn't have to look up to know his friend had answered his summons, or that he had taken a seat in the more comfortable of the two chairs in front of the large desk.

"I will remind you of discretion, Merik," he said in the middle of reading missives and scrawling replies. It was with the same detached tone his father was known for that he spoke.

Merik lost his smile, tone and all, "We have never acted to disgrace you, my lord."

The Red Lion stopped writing then, raising this eyes and devoted every bit of attention to his friend. "There are no titles in this room, Merik. Not with me. Not ever."

The strapping man that came of the scruffy stable boy sat stiff in irritation and a hint of recollected caution.

Tysan knew the error he made, the careless offence he gave the knight in front of him, and that the knight strained to remember the friend and not a shadow of the lord that deemed him chattel.

"I know you have never acted in a manner other than upstanding, Merik," the young lord grinned. The offer of something playful and genuine as penance to his friend. "But if I plead my unnecessary worry to the fuckwit portion of your pair, he would act purposefully to spite me." He leaned back then, his hands resting folded low on his chest. "It may be a tourney, and it may be in the Riverlands, but I don't need any more gossip."

 _Imprudent little shit_ , Tysan thought of his twin, as he struggled not to talk himself angry.

Merik's broad smile returned with it a glint of mirth to his onyx eyes. The restitution from Rykar's most recent scandal - a matter of championing a tourney melee clad in only boots and a helm - was still being doled to King Stannis; restitution for his brother avoiding the black cells of King's Landing.

Tysan's looked at his friend and smiled for the man's obvious contentment. There had always been a type of caring between the stable boy and the youngest twins of Lord Tywin Lannister. Although, when exactly that regard caught and changed into an intimacy between Merik and Rykar was unknown. Perhaps it had always been there, the truth was that the when's and why's didn't matter, only that they were happy. Their relationship was encouraged, their happiness more so, and no one protected that course more than Lady Sansa. His mother did not care whom her children loved, as long as it was their choice.

"Aaryn will be accompanying us, Ty," the knight scoffed. "He's more Rykar's conscience than I am, you should be assigning this responsibility to him."

When the Lord of Casterly Rock didn't say a word, only narrowed his eyes in a mock look of scolding, his friend knew there would be no argument... But that didn't mean his fun was restricted as well.

"I see. Then I will try my best to keep him... _in hand_." Merik fitted himself with a rakish grin and waggled his brows at lion wearing a look of his own, one of exaggerated repugnance.

Both men failed in their battle of wills and ended the draw with the same carefree laughter they shared as children - only this version was deeper, in both pitch and trust.

With the last dregs of frivolity tinting his words, Merik spoke of what he and the older twin always discussed when the younger twin was setting to leave the security of the Rock. "The Reach has accepted their invite - for certain there will be Fossoways and Redwynes in attendance."

He did not have to explain further. Tysan was well aware that those of House Tyrell carried no esteem for the sons of the man who struck down both their lord and greatest knight. Their lady mother was seen as a friend to Lord Willas, but their lord father was now considered a pariah. And in most circles the term _evil_ was used in conjunction with the Great Lion of Casterly Rock. By the same token, it was also well known was that the evil lord's sons would exact a debt from anyone daring to disrespect the Lannister family in their presence.

This was especially true of the youngest.

Rykar was known as blithe and fun loving; he was uniformly known for both his pranks and acts of selflessness. He did not care who you were, or where you were from, if he counted you as a friend he loved you as family. But he had inherited from his father a remorseless viciousness that could be wholly terrifying.

In battle, Rykar killed without thought or pity, and he did it well - better than anyone alive, most would say. And if he were within earshot of someone disparaging _any_ member of his family - adopted or true, alive or dead - that same ruthless behaviour snapped into place... usually accentuated by blood, sometimes accentuated by death.

"I will send word to Lord Edmure..." Tysan furrowed his brow slightly, abruptly making a decision. "And I will speak with Aaryn, let him know to keep his own temper and wits."

Merik nodded solemnly. It was the boy's first tourney, but Aaryn was the only one, aside from himself and Lady Sansa, that could pull Rykar from the darkness that sometimes consumed him.

The knight made to stand, their conversation waning to a close, stretching like a cat as he strode to the door, when Tysan halted him with the distracted words. The lord's focus once more pointed toward the endless stacks of parchment covering the desktop. "And remind Ry not to dally your return-"

"We'll be back for your mother's nameday," Merik complained in a whine more suited to his five-year-old self.

This was another cue he'd had thrown at him for the majority of his adult life. His lover had no mind for dates or occasions, and once again Rykar's deficiency became Merik's accountability. With an overtly indignant huff, the knight opened a door and took his leave - not hiding the smile nor smothering the chuckle caused by his lord's own laughter behind him.

The Red Lion gazed at the closed and heavy doors as though his friend were still standing before them as his eyes crinkled at the corners, again tangled in thought.

Tomorrow was his mother's nameday, and like every nameday save one, since the death of his father, she spent it in the very room he now sat in - alone. No one disturbs her, she takes her meals within and exits only when night draws out to just before morning. She never speaks of what she does or what she thinks about in that time, nor does Tysan care to intrude on her that way.

Those of her family and those the Westerlands had simply taken to celebrating properly in the days after, and it seemed his lady mother preferred it.

Though on _the_ day, everyone in the castle knew she received a gift. A single token that is delivered to her by her handmaid, while keeping to herself in the Lord's Solar.

A gift from Lord Tywin.

Whatever the Great Lion planned, he must have known there was a good chance he would never return. For the same reason he gave Tysan the key to the treasure room, he coordinated for his lady wife to receive a gift every year after he was gone.

The gifts were always made of white gold, always clever in their craftsmanship, and always accompanied by a small note.

 _...stacks of tiny missives - there must have been a hundred of them - with golden wax meaning they were from his lord father..._

It was only in the first year after his death, when her nameday came, they were together as a small family. The three of them were breaking their fast when a page presented a small box and a small gold-sealed letter to their lady mother at the table. She had looked at both he and Rykar as if to assess if the gift was their doing, but they were barely eight years old - that kind of thoughtful insight wouldn't be for years yet.

Lady Sansa had left the parcel for the moment and snapped the seal of letter, a terse smile playing at the corners of her mouth - but it only took a moment for even that guarded smile to be banished in a grim line. His mother did not cry or show that sort of distress, she merely stood and walked to the nearest window - seemingly hunting for something on the horizon, her arms wrapped around her middle.

Rykar was the first to approach, the first to reach and wrap his own arms about her; wherein Tysan stepped to the opposite side of her and mirrored his brother's embrace. She did not embrace them back, but cinched her arms tighter on herself, the missive dangling from her fingertips near level to Tysan's line of sight. It was a temptation he could not fight even if he wanted to, and it was only the first line that was available to him - of that, even to this day, he is glad.

 _My beloved wife,_

Those were the words he read. Those were the words quilled from his father to his mother, and Tysan hoped upon hope that those same words had greeted her every nameday since. The one day - in a year full of days - she gave solely to herself was for the memory of her late lord husband, and Tysan would strike down _anyone_ , man or woman, who though to take that away from her.

The Red Lion sighed audibly into the empty room. He did not have many stints like this anymore, hardly any bouts of melancholy or pangs of inadequacy at the memory of his sire.

Making his way to the expansive balcony, Lord Tysan Lannister looked out over the tranquil waves of the Sunset Sea wondering, not for the first time, if his father ever came out to absorb the same view. To appreciate the same magic. He could only assume he had. His father was very much like the water that stretched out to the horizon like an infinite blanket; both calm and volatile - equal measures of opposite extremes. An entity that held within its control the vastness of life, and, justly, disregard for that same mortality.

Yet, for as much of a monster others swore the man to be, Lord Tywin Lannister would always remain the compassionate father who held together the pieces of a sad and heartbroken little boy. He would always be the perpetual influence that helped guide that little boy toward being his own man. A little boy who knew how to interpret both the best and worst of his father, a little boy who had been given a choice of exactly what kind of man he wanted to be.

And that was the truth in the simplest of forms: regardless of how people tried to paint both he and his brother with the same brush, with the same crimson, as Lord Tywin, they would never _be_ their father because they chose different paths.

Lady Sansa honoured their lord father by being faithful to who _she_ was, to who she had become in light of her marriage, by the acts and decisions she made after Lord Tywin's death; by not succumbing to the grief or pressures encompassing her. And so, both Tysan and Rykar also formed themselves from her example, living the best of each of them, their mother and father, through their own life. Improving on what had been rendered to them.

It is, after all, about what you create amongst the suffering and celebration of life around you. It is the only gift you ever truly leave behind: your impression upon the world through your deeds and the honour you live by.

 _That_ is your legacy.

...

..

.


End file.
